


Fallen Draco

by DevilRising



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Enemies to Lovers, Fallen Angel, Fallen Angel!Draco, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2020-12-20 20:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 69,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilRising/pseuds/DevilRising
Summary: Draco is struggling at the Manor, being tortured and abused by Voldemort and his own father. However, they don’t know the truth about his blood status, and this puts him in great danger. Potter tries to rescue Draco, but there is a real possibility that Draco could die in the process.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m planning on uploading once a week-ish. This is a WIP, but I have every intention to complete it (already written the first four chapters). Enjoy! Xx

**2nd March, 1998**

It’s hard. It’s really, really hard, to know what I know and do _ nothing. _Every day I wake up screaming, nightmares plaguing me in my sleep. Each morning I look in the mirror, and watch as my wings start to fade. Going from purest white, to a darker shade of grey. I’m losing feathers too. There’s a jar by my bed, and a couple others in a drawer, filled with them. 

The day they started drooping, I became terrified. I knew what had caused it, but I didn’t want to think about. Angels are rarely men. And when they are, they don’t usually survive for very long. My life up until now was, rather dangerous. I always thought that if the war hadn’t killed me, I would’ve eventually died from being an angel. I guess it’s both. 

Voldemort is in the living room of Malfoy Manor, discussing what the next move will be. Father is listening intently, and I’ve been banished to my room, so it must be vital. Maybe there’s new information. Maybe they are planning another battle. I hope I’m not asked to participate. I never asked to be a part of this. I wish I wasn’t. Mother has grown increasingly concerned recently. She is the only confidant I have. The only person I can talk to. Her once beautiful hair has rapidly been turning grey and warn. The wrinkles riddling her skin are more pronounced than last year, and she is growing frail. I’m terrified of losing her, because that’s where I feel we’re heading.

A knock draws me across the room and towards my door. The wood is dark and thick, keeping up the illusion of no light in the Manor. When I twist the handle and pull the door towards me, I jump. It’s Voldemort. What’s he doing _ here? _ He takes in the surprise on my face, and a beam shows itself. On anyone else, I would say that it ‘lit up their face’. With the Dark Lord, however, it’s much more of a wicked, cruel, and insane look. Like he wants to saw my head off in a public courtyard. I cringe at the thought. 

“I’ve been wondering, Draco.” I shudder and pray that it isn’t visible. “How would you feel about being a crucial part of the next battle?” Like I have any choice. Like he wouldn’t kill me on the spot if he questioned my loyalty. 

“Of course, my lord,” I say as I drop into a bow. 

“Wonderful! Would you like to join the meeting in the drawing room, then?”

“That would be very gracious of you, my lord.”

I receive no reply, just a hand on my shoulder as I walk down the corridor and into the room my father is in. 

“You’re here, Draco. Glad. Take a seat over there.” Father gestures to a black leather armchair, and I sit on the very edge of the cushion. Voldemort strides in after me, and takes a seat opposite my father. He begins informing me about the recent decision to crash the Ministry. But not just any part of the Ministry. No, no, we need to be more _ ambitious _ than that. That’s _ predictable _even. No. We are crashing the Unspeakables’ department. 

Horror drips down my spine, but I smile and nod at the half-man in front of me. I tell him that I think it’s a marvellous idea, and will really _ persuade _people to join the correct side of this war. In my head, I’m screaming. It’s the worst idea imaginable. Who knows what’s in that department? If someone was to so much as knock something over, we could all be dead. What if someone was to wear a certain metal that reacted with an object? I can’t see this going at all well, but I sit in silence, a fake smile on my face.

***

**9th March, 1998**

I’m in over my head. I’ve known the next ploy for a week exactly, and have come up with every possible way this mission could fail. We could burn alive. Explode. Drown. Rapidly age. Turn into objects. Have the air sucked out of our bodies. The list is so long I forget the first few I wrote down. I have no idea why Voldemort decided the Unspeakable department was a good plan. But then again, when has he _ ever _had a good plan? 

The wind roars around my ears, and I can’t hear anything other than my pulse and hammering heart. Mountains are beautiful to look at, but to hike them? That’s another story entirely. But I needed to get away. I couldn’t bear to be in the same house as my father and Voldemort. The two men are positively twisted. They both need a mental asylum.

I sweep my eyes over the ground below, and marvel at the scene stretched before me. The view from Skiddaw mountain is astonishing. I feel tiny in comparison to everything else I can see. I feel like I’m insignificant. A welcome emotion for me recently. The sky above me is dull and cloudy, but there is no rain falling today. It’s Monday, and I _ should _be at Hogwarts, but I’ve been pulled out for the remainder of Seventh Year. Potter isn’t there anyway, so I wouldn’t be doing much. Studies became quite boring Sixth Year, if I’m being honest.

_ Potter. _ Apparently he is off in the world somewhere, trying to locate and destroy Horcruxes. I applaud him for trying, but there is no way he’ll survive that. Voldemort told me himself how difficult they are to find, and that to actually get a hold of them is practically impossible. I’ve tried to imagine where they would be, _ what _ they would be, but have always come up dry. I don’t know of a single place so dangerous. Potter must be out of his mind. Potter, Granger, Weasley, and his precious _ Order. _

Suddenly no longer interested in the scenery below me, I turn around and walk over to the tree where I’ve laid all my things out. I sit on the emerald picnic rug, and bite into one of the apples I brought. The pink skin matches what colour I know my cheeks must be, and I hum with the sweet taste filling my mouth. The branches above me sway in the gentle breeze, and I’m reminded of autumn days in Third Year. Before everything started going south rapidly. 

That was the year with the traitor Black escaping from Azkaban. The year with the stupid hypogriff breaking my arm. The year Granger punched me, and Potter laughed at me. Thankfully, that didn’t happen very often. My thoughts start straying back to life at Hogwarts, before the world turned a new head. Before my family started to repeatedly fulfill “tasks” and “assignments”. Before I had to seclude myself from my friends, the rest of Slytherin, and before I had to push myself to the extremes of my magical capabilities. 

The Vanishing Cupboard, the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbleodre’s death, and the Sectumsempra incident. Last year was a bitch. I can’t see this year being any improvement though. The plans that I’ve overheard (due to unfold sometime in May) haunt me in my sleep. I don’t know what to do about it. I have no one to talk to. To tell how scared I am.

The wind starts picking up, and the emerald rug beneath me lifts up in the breeze. Although it’s no longer a breeze. It’s more like a blustery wind than anything else. Regardless, I decide that it’s probably for the better to leave Skiddaw mountain and return to the Manor. I use my wand and a complex charm my father taught me in order to pack up all my things. I watch as everything floats above the rug, which starts folding itself into a square. The food I didn’t eat flies into the basket I brought, neatly organised and sorted. Then the rug shrinks, and enters into the basket. The basket then shrinks itself, so now I can fit it in the pocket of my black trousers. Happy with the charm, I nod to myself and pick up my Nimbus 2001 from where it is resting against the tree.

Even though the wind is brutal, I would rather fly the 475-ish kilometres back to Wiltshire, than accidentally apparate into a meeting again. That didn’t work out so well for me last time. 

***

**11th March, 1998**

Life is getting worse. It’s harder and harder each day to tell myself that it will be okay. Two days ago, I was beaten into unconsciousness for arriving after my curfew. The wind had made it nearly impossible to fly, and I struggled the whole way to the Manor. Being the stubborn prat that I am, I was confident that I would make it back before 11pm. I shouldn’t have taken the risk.

As an added punishment, I am grounded to my room. But my father and Voldemort don’t do things by half. No. They have come up with specially designed wards to let _ them _ in, but to keep _ everyone else _ out. Not to mention, I physically can’t leave. If I try, I’m electrocuted until I’m knocked out. If that happens four times, I’m instantly killed. I am forced to stay in my tiny, dark, uncomforting room for a month. The only thing I’m allowed to do is write letters. But I have no way of sending them out to anyone or anywhere. With no owl to carry them, I’m doomed. They deliberately let me write for help, knowing that I’m not stupid enough to _ actually _do it. 

Instead, I write stories, I draw woodland animals (and other more, uh, _ explicit _ones, but those are burned immediately after completion). It’s relaxing. With nothing but ink and parchment, I waste away the hours in front of the fire. The warmth very welcome in the cold month March is shaping up to be. Eventually tired with ink, I grab down a book on puzzles from my shelves. The cover is faded, deep purple, the title written in silver thread. I’ve read this so many times, solved each riddle, word puzzle, and math problem, but I open it anyway. 

The first one is easy. “.--. ..- --.. --.. .-.. . ... - .... .-. --- ..- --. .... --. . -. . .-. .- - .. --- -. ...” The problem is written in Morse code, and it takes less than a minute to have it decoded. “Puzzles Through Generations” is the title of the book, and I find it rather humorous that it’s also the first problem. I smile to myself, before diving headfirst into the book.

***

Later that same evening, I start to grow restless. With nothing else in my room, I’ve resorted to lying on my bed, face buried in a pillow. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Why I allowed myself to get into this mess. Why I even bothered coming back to the Manor. I wonder, not for the first time, why I’m given so much freedom. Well, except for right now, of course. I’m generally permitted all through the Manor and it’s grounds. I’m given unlimited access to anywhere on the continent, so long as I can be traced. 

I always come to the same conclusion though. The two terrible excuses for men know I won’t leave. They know that I know that if I was to desert them, they would track me. Voldemort would employ thousands of Death Eaters to find me, and to bring me back to him to die at his hands. Hours of torture would occur, worsened because of my father. I would be considered a ‘traitor’. I have nothing wrong with that last bit, of course. But I wouldn’t want to leave my mother. She would surely be punished for my actions, and I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t ever forgive myself. 

I stand up from the bed, pace over to the small bathroom joined to my bedroom, and stare at my reflection. I look ill. My hair is in shambles, strewn all over my face. It almost looks like Potter’s, except for the colours, which are starkly opposite. My eyes have sunken into my skin, dark rings under them. My complexion has become sickly pale, and I wonder when this happened. I’ve probably looked terrible for months, but been too busy with everything else—like surviving—to notice. 

Trying desperately to salvage my appearance I cast a few simple charms. I straighten out my hair, making it fall neatly to my scalp. After struggling with my complexion for a while, I give up and move to my eyes. The bags are covered with a glamour that takes all of my energy. I’m so tired from the spells that I pad back to my bed and gladly fall asleep. In my dreams, I question why I was worn out so quickly, but pass it off as being trapped in a room with no sun, limited food and water, and lack of new oxygen.

***

**15th March, 1998**

I’m becoming desperate. I was let out of my room for an hour earlier this morning, and dragged outside into the sun and air. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, but it was better than the artificial lights. Food was handed to me, and I greedily ate it, the first proper meal I’d had in six days. I didn’t think the occasional plate of unappetising gloop counted. After fifteen minutes, I was dragged back inside once again, and led into the drawing room where I first accepted the Dark Mark. I was then tortured for the remainder of the hour. 

Legilimency was first. Voldemort did it himself. Digging through my memories to find any weakness he could. He had eventually decided on one of Potter lunging at me, fury in his eyes. I was taunted with it for ages, before being placed under the Cruciatus Curse. It had been extreme pain, and I’m thankful it’s over now. Still, the sensation is fresh in my mind, and I’m being plagued by paranoia. 

Desperation fills me just from the memory, and I silently panic at my desk. I need to get out of here. My wings are losing colour every day. Feathers have filled the jar next to my bed, and I’ve started a fourth. I need to get help immediately. I’m seriously starting to wonder how long I have left. As a male angel, I never should’ve lived this long. I should’ve died years ago. I stretch my fading wings out, and try to gently flutter them. No use. Instead, I watch as a single feather floats to the carpet beneath my feet. 

Uncontrollable tears stream down my face, and it’s desperation that finally drives me to pick up a quill. It’s intense, urgent need that makes me pull a sheet of parchment from my stack. It’s in despair that I actually touch the inked quill to the parchment. I quickly pen a letter to the first person I can think of to save me. Shuddering, I use my wand to summon a muggle postage stamp from the hallway outside, slip it under the door, and stick it to the envelope I pulled from a drawer. 

A shiver goes through me as I seal the letter in the envelope. I don’t know how to send it to him, until I remember about the bathroom. I cross the bedroom and turn the water on in the shower in order to cover any noise I might make. Then I drag a chair in from the bedroom, and place it directly beneath the air vent. Standing in the chair precariously, I dismantle the grille from the ceiling and place it gently onto the white tiles. The gap is too small for anything but my hand to get through, and I grin. There’s no way anyone will think I’ve used this air vent for anything. What’s the point after all? 

Carefully, I place the letter into the vent opening and pull my wand from my pocket. Knowing I’ll be drained after this no matter what I do, I decide to use everything left in me to lurch the letter up. A shock of green particles shoot from my wand tip, and they push the letter up the vent. I watch as it disappears from view and into the kitchen vent. I start to track the letter with my mind. Following it as it flies through the deserted kitchen, and out of the window in the dining room. I know it’s made it out of the wards when the green barges into my wand again, knocking me off of the chair I’m still standing on.

Now I can only hope that Potter replies. Or rather, that he doesn’t. 

***

**22nd March, 1998**

It’s been a week now, and I’ve heard nothing from him. I _ have _been let out of my room a couple of times though. My wings have lost all of the pure white, and are now as dark as a raven. It’s quite striking, the dark colour of the few feathers I have left, against my sickly pale skin and platinum hair. I always thought that if I lost my wings, there would be a skeleton left to haunt me of the sins I had committed. Instead, there is nothing. The feathers aren’t attached to anything but air. Maybe it’s because of the extremity of the darkness encompassing me. 

I no longer feel much at all, just longing to be saved. Even if it’s by my previous enemy. 

***

**24th March, 1998**

My wings are totally gone. Vanished from existence. I feel awful. The steady stream of food, sun, water, and air being spoon-fed to me isn’t enough. My mother is blaming herself, and I can’t stand seeing her beyond her right mind. I start praying to a god I don’t believe in for Potter to arrive.

***

**26th March, 1998**

I threw up today. It’s been 24 days since this whole thing started. Scars have made themselves a home between my shoulder blades, permanently tormenting me. I wish not for the first time that I’d done something sooner. Before I was in over my head. Potter had better get here soon.

***


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who left kudos/comments on the last part. And to everyone who read as well. Enjoy this chapter!! Xx

**29th March, 1998**

A sharp, urgent knock draws me from my sleep. Fearing that Father has found out about my letter to Potter, I prepare for the worst. I pick up the small knife I’ve stolen, aiming it at the door. I don’t bother with my wand. I won’t be able to cast anything. I haven’t been able to for days. The door is quietly opened, hesitantly being pushed towards me. I start to question things now. My father wouldn’t do that. He’d slam it open, no care for the chance of it damaging the wall. But if it’s not Father, who would it be?

I run through the various options in my mind, all the while edging silently behind the bookshelf. It wouldn’t be Voldemort, he would’ve burst it open with an Unforgivable for sure. It could always be Mother, but she’s been too tired with worry (about both me and our situation) recently to do much of anything. I start sorting through everyone in the Manor. All the Death Eaters, the servants which are more like slaves, the elves, anyone else who might be able to get into the Manor. But I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t either slam the door, or kill me instantly. 

“Malfoy…?” A whisper sounds from the door, and I halt behind the bookcase. It comes again. “Are you in here?” The voice sounds slightly familiar, but I can’t place my finger on where from. A creak in the floor from the center of my room jerks me back to reality almost as soon as I’d left. I press firm against the wall, my knife aimed for the gap where someone could see me. I shallow my breathing, making myself near silent and out of view. “I’m serious Malfoy. If you’re here, come out.” The voice is getting frustrated.

“Come on Malfoy! You _ have _to be here!” The voice rings absolutely familiar now. The tone of irritation mixed with worry, mixed with impatience, can only belong to one person. I drop my knife, letting it ring out loudly in the room. A quick intake of breath nearby startles me, and I freeze again. But then the bookshelf is being pulled away from the wall, and I can once again see my room. 

“It is you!” I exclaim. Potter looks relieved, and drags me away from the bookcase. 

Barely having the strength to stand, I lean heavily on the black haired boy who saved me. I knew he would. Potter brings a hand up to my back to stable me, fingers ghosting over my shoulder blades. I wince in pain and he looks extremely concerned before realisation crosses his features. 

“Wings…?” I nod solemnly, grief and pain etched clearly on my face. I’m not bothered hiding my emotions right now, being in so much pain. 

Potter drops his hand from my back, instead wrapping it around my waist and pulling me in. We are now hip-to-hip as we walk over to my bed. He releases his grip and I fall to the mattress. 

“Malfoy. We need to get out of here.” It’s a warning, his voice firm and commanding. 

“In, a, minute,” I breathe. He nods at my request, and starts to shuffle around my room. He opens every drawer, cupboard, and bag. He looks through all my books, toiletries, and other belongings. 

“Checking for bugs,” he supplies. I don’t quite know what that means, but I go with it.

Potter draws his wand from his disgustingly muddy jeans, and casts a charm to pack some of my things into a bag he brought. I don’t know how he fits all of it in, there must be an Undetectable Extension Charm or something on it. He floats more clothes into the handbag and passes it to me. I raise an eyebrow at the feminine bag, but he just shrugs.

“Hermione.” 

That appears to be the only answer I get, and quite frankly, I don’t have the energy to ask for more.

“Where’s Narcissa?”

“Mother?”

“Yeah. You mentioned that you wanted her out with you.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.”

“Well…?”

“Oh! The master bedroom, much like me, I'm guessing.”

“Great,” Potter sighs. He casts some more fancy spells, and I watch, intrigued, as a net of blue settles over the room. It looks like a setting charm mixed with a pressure charm. The combination would make sure nothing within this room moves from its normal position, and pressure would be constantly applied to various surfaces of my room to prevent Father noticing my absence. It’s rather clever of Potter.

“Which way is Narcissa?” His voice cuts through the cloud of thought.

“Out the door, straight down the corridor, three doors on the left,” I say, not even thinking about it. After all, I’ve spent weeks thinking about this moment. Simultaneously hoping for it, and dreading it. Potter carefully opens the door, and I watch as he creeps out of my bedroom. I wonder how this happened. How the ‘_ Saviour _’ came to save me. Again. I wonder which was worse?

“You coming, or too weak?” His voice is gentle, and I want to scowl.

“Not weak! Malfoys aren’t weak!”

“Malfoy. You are dying.” I want to disagree, but realise he’s probably right. Not that I’d ever tell him that. “Stay here. I’ve decided for you.” He nods his head at me before slipping through the door, and pacing silently down the hallway. 

The few minutes of waiting for him to return with Mother are the worst in my life. It’s sheer torture, lying on my bed, excruciating pain shooting through my body. I try to centralise the pain, but there isn’t a center anymore. What used to only be between my collarbones, has expanded out over my entire back, like my bones are slowly deteriorating within my body. I realise just how weak—for lack of a better word—I really am. The knife closed tightly in my hand would do shit against an intruder. My wand lies uselessly next to me on the bed, not that I’m even able to cast anything. I sigh, hair flopping over my forehead.

By the time Potter opens my door again, I am terrified that something’s gone wrong. Maybe Mother is dead? Maybe Potter was found? Killed? Maybe Father and Voldemort are on their way to my room right this second? Needless to say, I am relieved when I catch sight of the messy black hair. From where I’m lying on the bed, I can’t really see much. I force myself to sit up, the pain agonising. I clutch my back, trying to dull it a bit. This only results in making it worse. Quickly jerking my hand away, I groan. 

Footsteps echo through my charmed and protected bedroom, and Potter is back by my bed. He looks extremely worried when he catches sight of me. I can’t look that bad, surely. Maybe he’s worried because of my injuries? But why would he care? I push my nagging thoughts away and make to get off the bed. I hiss through gritted teeth, but stand up on my own two feet anyway. I wish I hadn’t. Pain spreads, shooting from my back, up to my neck and down my legs. I immediately collapse and land heavily on the mattress behind me. 

Potter rushes forward, arms out and emerald eyes worried. He puts his hands all over me, trying to find my arms and chest. When he succeeds, he hauls me back up into a sitting position, and cradles my head. I scowl at being treated like a baby. At least, in my mind I do. In actuality, I move further into his body, warmth and comfort the only thing on my mind. Because Potter doesn’t hurt. His touch feels normal. No pain rushing down my back. No intense burning between my shoulder blades. It feels nice. And I’m terrified of it.

“Malfoy. We need to get you out of here and into St Mungos,” Potter says, tone urgent.

My only response is a nod. He lifts me up into his arms and carries me like a child. I want to scream my protest. But I’m too tired. He turns around and strides towards the door. And for the first time in weeks, I see Mother. Her pale skin has turned sallow and sickly. Her hair is greasy and greying. Her once lively eyes are downcast, sad, and scared. 

“Mother,” I manage to croak out.

“Draco, dear,” she whispers. It’s a marvel we were able to utter that much. Potter tightens his grip on me, before casting the Feather-Light Charm. My weight evidently drops a bit, as he pulls me closer and bumps me up higher on his body. My head is now in line with his shoulder, and I rest it on him. Only for a second though, I promise myself. I lied. I’m not bothered to lift it once it’s down. Eventually, as we are traversing through the many corridors, the world starts to slip away into blackness.

***

**30th March, 1998**

I blink slowly, yellow lights blurry above me. I watch as they slowly come into focus, sharpening into circular light bulbs. They aren’t yellow either, but blinding white. A constant beep comes into focus too, and I turn my head to see what it is. I sigh. St Mungos. I’m not surprised. Potter did say he would take me here, but I rather thought he’d wait until I was conscious. The beep, as it turns out, is from my wand sitting on the table next to my hospital bed. It must be charmed to alert my MediWitch when I’m awake. I groan and cover my face with my hands. After a minute, I decide that that won’t help me at all, and pull them away. 

I glance around the room, trying to piece things together. I see the curtain first. The heavy, white curtain in a semicircle around my bed. Within the sectioned off room, I see a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs, a table, and a few magazines. The bed I’m in is quite comfortable, surprisingly. The blankets are lovely and warm, and the mattress is soft. The same can’t be said for the pillow. The outside of the bed however, is a hard, cold plastic that’s more suitable to a muggle invention. I think it’s called a ‘fridge’. Stupid muggles come up with the weirdest names. 

“Mr Malfoy. I see you’re awake.” 

I want to sneer, ‘evidently’ at the MediWitch, but restrain myself. Barely. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m Audrey Lyons, and I’m your MediWitch,” she quips. Her skin is dark, her black hair braided away from her face. Her eyes are a shocking blue, and I find myself lost in them for a second. Then I redeem myself, and nod at her introduction. 

“How are you feeling? Any pain?”

That’s when I realise. I’m not actually _ in _any pain. No sparks flying down my spine. No searing between my shoulder blades. Nothing. I shake my head slowly at the MediWitch, surprise etched on my face. 

“That’s marvellous, Mr Malfoy,” she beams. “I would like to do a check-over though.” I nod my permission, and she traces my outline with her wand. She looks thoughtful for a second, before smiling again. “Your stats look perfectly normal.”

I lower my eyebrows, scrunching them up. How is that possible? 

“Oh, don’t worry! That’s your human stats, not your angel ones.”

“You know about that!”

“Of course I do, Mr Malfoy,”Audrey reasons. “I’m your MediWitch. I saw them when I was checking you for physical harm, and my charms picked up pretty quickly.”

“Oh. Of course.” I feel so stupid, yet puzzled. How come I’m still here if they know the truth?

“Oh! Mr Potter. Hello, what are you doing here?” The MediWitch says, confused and slightly annoyed. 

“I’m checking on Malfoy.”

“I do believe that’s my job.” 

I laugh silently.

“Well, yes. But, I wanted to see, how he was.” Potter sounds a little flustered.

“I see. Well, you have three minutes.” With that, the MediWitch stepped through the curtain and closed us in.

“Potter,” I nod at him.

“Malfoy,” he returns the gesture. “How are you?”

“As good as I can be in St fucking Mungos.”

“I thought you wanted to come here?” He sounds puzzled.

“My father and _ him _could find me!”

“Oh. That’s not a problem, actually,” he says while rubbing the back of his neck.

“What do you _ mean _‘not a problem.’ Honestly Potter!”

“I _ mean _,” he mocks, “that I put you in a special, secret ward. It’s illegal for anyone to even mention you.”

“Wait- what?”

“Yeah. I paid for you to be put in a special ward, where you can’t be traced.”

“Wow.” I’m dumbfounded. Why would he do that for me?

Potter takes a step closer to me. His round glasses reflect the light beautifully, and it makes me realise just how young he is. How young we both are. He stands next to me now, covered in dirt and blood. Where has he _ been _? 

“How is your back?” He asks, trying to find solace in the small talk. The small talk I would rather die than engage in.

“I can’t feel it. How drugged am I?”

“Very.”

“Sounds about right.”

There is an awkward pause, both of us suddenly realising how little we have to talk about. Opposite sides of the war, or at least, used to be. Enemies since we were eleven. Fights, problems, bullying, betrayal. Is there a single negative adjective you couldn’t use to describe our relationship.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“You have the capability?” At least my wit has returned. Or is it sarcasm? I can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Haha, very funny Malfoy,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s about your wings.”

“Continue.” I pause, before adding, “Or, you know, don’t.” I can’t seem too keen.

“Well, angels that have lost them are called ‘fallen angels’.”

“Bravo Potter.” I had heard of that somewhere. I don’t know where, though… 

“And it is sometimes possible for them to get their wings back.”

“What…?” It comes out as a breath. A whisper. A murmur. A question I didn’t think I’d ever be asking.

“Yes. It is rare though. Mind you, so are male angels.”

“Yes.” A shiver runs through me at the way he is speaking. Hopeful. Optimistic, even. “How?”

“That depends on each person.”

“How, for me?”

“That’s where my thinking got a bit muddled.” I smirk at Potter. “I do have an idea, but I’m not sure you’d like it.”

“Tell me anyway,” I rush, too fast to keep up my pretence if nonchalance. Oh well.

“Help me defeat him, Malfoy. Help me defeat Voldemort.”

***

I don’t know what he expects me to do. ‘Help me defeat Voldemort.’ Honestly. I would love for him to be killed, gone. But I can’t have a part in that. My family. My reputation. My mother, especially. I briefly wonder where she is, before deciding that Potter would’ve told me if something had gone wrong. He would’ve at least mentioned it. When did I become so sure.

It’s only been a couple of hours, but it feels like I’ve been here for days. I found out after the MediWitch came back to shoo Potter away, that I hadn’t even been out a day. I was filled with relief but also despair. A day could either mean that Father hadn’t discovered my absence, or that he has sent a whole army out to look for me. I shudder at the memory, and force my thoughts to turn elsewhere. 

It’s rather ridiculous, my current situation. I’m seventeen, a fallen angel, dying in the middle of a war on the wrong side. And I’ve just been rescued by another seventeen year old boy, who is destined to save the world. But that’s not where the stark contrasts end. My pale skin, silver eyes, and platinum hair are opposites to Potter’s tan skin, black hair, and green eyes. Evil, wicked, cruel. Honest, saviour, brave. Stupid, stupid. At least that’s the same. I’m stupid for sticking with my father for so long. Potter is stupid by being so ‘brave’ and ‘heroic’. And we are both probably going to die before the end of the world. 

I sigh and roll over on the hospital bed. I want to be back home. But not the Manor. I can’t consider that evil place as my home any more. Not when it’s overrun with dark wizards and people wishing for my death. But I don’t have anywhere else either. Home has always been the Manor before now. The only other place I’ve ever kind-of-liked would be Hogwarts, and I don’t think I have to explain why that’s a horrible idea. With nowhere and no one to turn to, I’m stuck. 

The rustle of the curtain behind me drags me from my thoughts, and I watch as Potter creeps in. He is holding something I can’t quite make out, and a mischievous smile flickers onto his features. 

“Malfoy. Here.” He passes me the bundle once he reaches my side. I raise an eyebrow but open it anyway. A set of long, ordinary, black robes fall out and land in my lap. 

“What on earth do I need these for, Potter?” 

“I’m breaking you out of here.”

***


	3. Part 3

**31st March, 1998**

I watch as the clock next to me ticks over to midnight. Tuesday. Potter is still looking at me pointedly, waiting for me to pick up the robes. They are black as night, the perfect cover for me to slip under. For him to break me out of St. Mungo’s. My stomach clenches, knots riddling inside of me, tangling up. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to put myself in danger once again, susceptible to my Father’s demons. But I can’t stay here. I’ll be found, caught. And then I’ll be back right where I left, but I imagine it would be a lot worse. What am I doing?

Potter sighs heavily before backing out of the room. In the doorway he whispers, “It’s fine if you don’t want to. I just thought-”

I cut him off by leaping out of the bed, clutching at the long robes. He gapes as I rush to remove my hospital clothes and throw the black fabric over me. I pull the oversized hood on, letting it fall onto my head. Potter smiles for a second before realising what exactly we’re doing. 

He hurries to cast a cleaning charm over himself, removing all the blood and dirt that was caked on thick. Pointing his wand at his face, he then casts a Glamour. His scar vanished from sight, replaced with a pale patch of skin. I watch as all of his flesh slowly fades as well, leaving behind skin just darker than my own. Then he waves his holly wand above his hair, and it starts shortening and fading. What’s left is startling unlike him. The mop of black hair is now a cropped sandy-brown cut, and he looks rather strange. He conjures a small mirror to judge his disguise, and nods. 

Turning to me, Potter raises his wand to my face. I instinctively flinch, before forcing myself to relax. A sorry-almost-pitying expression crosses his features, his emerald green eyes creased, and he quickly starts moving his wand as a distraction. I feel nothing changing, and I can’t see anything from beneath the thick cover-up I’m wearing, but Potter spends ages redoing his work. Making sure I’m completely unrecognisable. When he spins the mirror to face me, I almost gasp. My skin is still pale, but now it’s cool toned and covered with freckles. Red tinges poke through at odd places, and one particular patch draws my attention up to my hair. The neat, platinum blond is gone, replaced with strawberry blond tresses curling at the end. My eyes are no longer grey, but rather a pretty silver, the colour I’ve always wished for. 

The nose and mouth resting on my face are different as well. Both are thinner, the nose is shorter and rather like McGonagall’s. My lips have changed colour and are now an odd orange instead of a pale pink. There is nothing familiar about my reflection, and I feel detached from the person I look like. Potter is inspecting my face, checking that it still disguises me. I purse my lips and turn the mirror away, passing it back to him. He waves his wand again and sicards the conjured mirror. He straightens the bed sheets out with a charm and quickly scribbles a note onto a scrap of parchment. He spello-tapes the note onto the back of the door and I catch a glance at it.

‘Mr. Malfoy has been relocated to another ward for his recovery. Do not follow up on his injuries, and mention him to no one.’ 

A warm feeling trickles up my spine, and I’m reassured. For the moment. Maybe Father won’t be able to find me. Potter is watching me again, and I nod at him silently. He pulls up his own hood (when did he get those robes?) and grabs my hand. I open my door and we walk out into the corridor.

***

St Mungo’s looks rather sad behind us. Instead of the bright hospital that’s inside, the exterior is another story. The red-bricked department store “Purge and Dowse, Ltd.” looks like it’s stuck in the 70s. It’s tiny, dark, and cramped. It’s perfect. The muggles passing by don’t pay it any attention, pretending that the monstrosity of a building doesn’t exist. Potter is still holding my hand, and I yank it away. He says nothing, continuing to walk through the criss-cross of messy London streets. I have no idea where we are, or where we’re going, but he seems to have a clear picture in his mind. 

Potter trudges through various streets, all of which are quiet and seemingly unused by the public. When we accidentally come across a well lit, busy street, a chill races within me. The man next to me groans and grabs my hand. Before I have time to complain he leans in close to me, mouth to my ear. “We have to pretend Malfoy.” I open my mouth to ask what exactly he means by that, when it hits me. We are teenagers in Muggle London, at midnight, wearing robes. Potter is holding my hand tightly, gripping me to him. Here, we are together. Questions won’t be asked and we will be able to slip between people relatively unnoticed. Boyfriends. It’s a brilliant idea, but I don’t quite fancy it.

I twist to him, about to argue, but I never get the chance. I’m suddenly being pulled across a street. Lights of red are on either side of me, with a bright green one in front. The green matches Potter’s eyes, and I feel slightly dizzy. The ground beneath me is striped with white, and a purring sound surrounds me. Of course. Muggle London. The odd, curved, shiny metal _ thing _carrying people are ‘cars’. My head swims, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Inside the cars, there is at least one muggle holding onto a circle with shapes cut out of it. This circle seems to control which way the car moves. Before I can figure anything else out, we are on the other side of the road. 

Potter doesn’t slow at all, dragging me down a path. Shops line the street, most displaying a sign reading ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’ I look into each of the shops we pass, staring past our reflections and beyond the glass. Clothes make up the majority of what I see, hung up and folded in some sort of order. These particular stores often have people look-alikes standing at the front, presumably wearing some of the clothes sold in-store. Other shops are covered in pictures of tropic islands and of Europe, buildings covered wall-to-wall with massive machines that apparently dispense money, and shops filled with antiques and gifts. 

Potter ducks into another alley and releases my hand. “We’ll Side-Along.” I nod hurriedly, wanting to be away from the muggles with their weird machines and inventions. Clutching onto Potter’s extended arm, I prepare for the queasy sensation of apparating. The world goes black for a split second, everything closing in on us and squishing down. And then it’s stopped, and we are standing on yet another street. This one seems quiet but still in use, and dingy houses dot the ground near the road. It’s a suburban street. The streetlights are dim, not emitting enough light to see clearly by, but I manage to notice that the houses look mostly abandoned. Potter walks forward and I let my arm drop back to my side. I watch as he walks up to two of the houses, looking expectantly at the seam. He notices that my arm is gone, and grabs for me again. 

As he takes my hand, I see what he’s looking at. Another house is emerging, forcing itself out from between the two next to it. Instantly I know why I couldn’t see it. 

“A Fidelius Charm…” I whisper.

“Yes,” Potter confirms bluntly. He leads me up the steps and draws his wand. I flinch at the holly length but release a sigh when he merely points it to the door. He murmurs something I can’t hear and pushes the battered door open. A long hallway comes into view, and I scrunch up my nose. The carpet is dirty and wearing thin, and the wallpaper is literally peeling off the walls. Serpents decorate the corridor, all of which are rusty and dull. I sweep my gaze up and down again, and spot a particularly ugly umbrella stand that’s made from a troll leg. 

“I know, it’s hideous,” Potter deadpans.

“It’s the Black house.” It’s not a question, I know what it is.

“Was. It’s mine now.”

“You can keep it,” I sneer, “its revolting.”

“Gee thanks.”

I nod at him and start to pace up the hallway. Portraits hang off the walls, each of them depicting a different relative of mine. They are clearly well done, but a layer of dust coats the paint. As I move through the ground floor, I take everything in. I’ve never actually entered the house. My parents thought, rightfully so, that it was an embarrassment that shouldn’t be mentioned. Spider webs cling to the ceiling, and I shudder as I pass under them.

“Want something to eat?”

I turn at Potter’s awkward attempt at small talk. “No thanks.”

“Look. I know this place is dingy, but nothing I try fixes it.” He pauses, glancing down to the doorway at my left. “Besides, you have to eat at some point.”

I scoff loudly and enter the dining room. It’s a long room with a massive table in the middle, easily as big as the table at the Manor. Light fixtures hang from the ceiling, glowing faintly. “This room is better,” I say. The amount of dust is dramatically less than in the entrance, and the furniture isn’t crumbling to splinters. I still don’t particularly want to stay in it for too long though. 

“Thanks Malfoy,” Potter replies. The git actually sounds pleased.

I exit the dining room and continue down the entryway. There is a stone door at the very end, and I hesitantly push it open. 

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”

“How come?” My voice is steady with a hint of judgemental. 

“It’s worse than here.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I drawl. “What’s through there?”

“Technically it’s the basement, but the kitchen’s there too.” Potter has the sense to look sheepish at the fact that his kitchen is revolting and grimy, so I decide I’ll do as he wishes and look somewhere else. 

I turn around and start going up the long flight stairs. I screw up my features at the House Elf heads stuck to the wall and keep my eyes down. When I reach the first landing, I gratefully step away from the stairs. This floor is much cleaner than the lower one and I gaze around, intrigued. There appears to be at least one bedroom, a bathroom, and a drawing room. I make a beeline for the latter, hoping to find somewhere to sit down. Instead, I halt immediately. There is a massive tapestry on the walls, covered in names and faces. It’s the Black family tree. My eyes rake over everyone, saying the names I know off by heart. I don’t recognise some of them, all of which are beneath a black, burned circle covering someone’s face. It seems I haven’t been taught about the people who disappointed the family. 

Out of the corner of my eye I spot my mother’s name and face, and walk over to it. My hand lightly caresses the tapestry, and I feel a pang in my chest. Where is Mother? Potter said she was safe… 

“She’s in a room upstairs, sleeping deeply.” His voice cuts through the silence and startles me. “I saw you looking, thought that’s what you might’ve been thinking,” he shrugs at me. I narrow my eyes at how easily he figured my thoughts out, but decide it’s ultimately not worth pondering over. We have always paid lots of attention to each other.

“Take me to her.” I swallow heavily around a lump in my throat as I’m led up another flight of stairs. This landing is smaller, but has more bedrooms. The second door is shut, and I walk carefully up to it. The gentle steps don’t stop the floor creaking, but it must help. I glance at the rooms next to it, and nearly barf at the state they are in. I close both of the doors on either side of the middle one and lock them to deal with later. I push open the door to my mother and step inside. The bedroom is clean and plain, lacking all of the _ decorations _in the others. Potter has clearly cleaned it out in preparation for her. There is a table with potion bottles sitting on it, as well as a cup of water and some food under stasis charms. 

I make my way to Mother, and my heart momentarily shatters. She looks so fragile, lying there. Her grey hair is fanned out on the soft white pillow, her eyes shut tight. I walk up and take my spot next to her. I reach out and take her sickly-pale hand into my own. My eyes burn and for a second I think I’m going to cry, but I don’t let myself. She isn’t gone. Not yet.

***

**1st April, 1998**

Potter has put me in the bedroom on the first floor. I hated it for the first little while, sitting in the uncomfortable bed sulking. But then I decided that I should do something about it instead of wallowing. So I did. I started with cleaning charms to remove some of the dust and debris, but quickly realised that it was doing nothing. After that revelation, I had started doing it by hand. Moving the rubbish and old furniture into the corridor was easy enough, most of it being deceivingly light. The dust, however, was another story. It was fairly simple to sweep it into multiple little piles, but what to do after that I had had no idea. 

Eventually I had realised that I could just shove it into a bag and throw it out, so that’s what I did. I looked around the room and was quite happy with my progress. And then the walls had caught my attention. I remember scowling so hard my face hurt, before viciously ripping at the paper. By the time my disgust had worn away, most of the wallpaper was scattered on the floor. I also swept that up into a bag, and then removed the rest civilly with the help of some water and a lot of patience. All the while I was doing that, the carpet under my feet was starting to fall apart. The soles of my feet had hurt and I was growing tired. I took a break for a while, moving downstairs and finding something to eat in that truly horrendous kitchen. 

I was refreshed when I paced back up the stairs and into my room, so I decided to tear up the mouldy carpet. While doing so, some wooden floorboards appeared. They were old and stained a disgusting warm tone, but they were better than the carpet. I hauled all the scraps out into the corridor next to the bags of dust and the debris, before Vanishing the lot of it. Now the room resembles more of a box than a bedroom, but it is much better than when I started. I still hate it, mind, but at least now it’s cleaner. 

“You should order some paint and stainer.”

Potters input scares me, and I wonder how long he’s been standing in the doorway. “Weren’t you at the Ministry?”

“Yep. Left hours ago, decided to meet with ‘Mione and Ron in their hideout.”

“Oh, ok.” I pause, looking him up and down. His clothing is filthy, blood-stained and muddy. Why is he always covered in blood?

“Have you been doing this all day?” Potter asks curiously.

“Guess so…”

“Like some help?”

“From you? No thanks,” I insult. “You’d probably make it worse than when I started,” I joke.

“Probably,” he replies absently.

We lapse into silence, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. I take this time to really look around at my work. The walls are stripped bare to reveal an off-white colour beneath, the removed carpet showing floorboards that are in a fairly decent condition despite their age, and the lack of dust and debris makes the room seem bigger and brighter. The only current problem needing fixing is that there is no bed. 

“I should go get some furniture,” I utter awkwardly.

“No!” Potter cries. “You can not leave this house!”

“Why not?!” I yell, indignant.

“It’s dangerous Malfoy!”

“How so?”

“Your father is most likely tracking you down right this second, Voldemort will be beyond it with rage, and they both have a whole army of Death Eaters at their finger tips! Not to mention that the public would be more than likely to turn you in!” Potter reasons.

I stare at him. His Glamour is long gone, and his tan skin is flushed in anger and desperation. I sigh loudly and nod, accepting my fate. It is just too risky to leave, and I would probably be killed instantly. But something is itching at the back of my mind. “If the public wants to turn me in…” I start, “why haven’t _ you _?”

Potter’s expression falters, his posture tightening. He closes up from me, crossing his arms in front of his chest. For a second, I don’t think he’s going to answer me. 

“Because.”

“That’s hardly a response,” I roll my eyes.

“Because,” he sighs, “I’ve always been oddly aware of you. I couldn’t bear to have you killed.” 

I freeze. _ Oddly aware. Couldn’t bear to have you killed. _It sounds like he’s some sort of friend, not my enemy from since we were eleven years old. I contemplate his confession, and realise that I feel the same. I have always noticed random things about Potter that others miss. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t torment him, make his life miserable. He’s been such a big part of my childhood, making his life miserable was my favourite hobby. And despite everything, he saved me. 

I slowly feel the tension drain from my body, and I turn my eyes to Potter. I take in his expression of ‘what did I just say?’ and ‘it was true anyway’ just as a blinding white light hits me. Pain sears up my body and I feel my back threaten to split open. It’s happening… 


	4. Part 4

**1st April, 1998 (continued)**

I always knew that this day would come. Mother had warned me almost as soon as she discovered that I had Fallen. If I thought I’d ever get to this point, I had hoped that it would happen when I was both mentally and physically prepared. When I had a room with my family’s MediWitches and dozens of potions. Of course, hope fails you a lot of the time, and I shouldn’t have even thought about the ideal conditions. Because this falls drastically short. 

I reach my hand awkwardly around to clutch at my back. I instantly draw it away again when I feel something wet. Blood. My hand is covered in thin, red, runny blood. I watch as it drips onto the newly revealed floorboards of the bedroom I’ve claimed. _Shame_. I rush to rip my shirt off, not bearing the blood-soaked fabric a second thought. The once white dress shirt is in a messed pile on the ground. 

“Malfoy! What’s happening? Are you okay?!” Potter starts asking questions, concern and shock in his tone.

“_What’s happening_,” I mock his voice, “is my wings are coming through.” I grit the last part of the sentence out, seeing stars from the agony.

“I thought you lost them!” 

“That is what a Fallen Angel is, yes.”

“So what’s this?!” Potter sounds panicked, as I probably do.

“They’re re-emerging!”

My shriek splits the room. I claw at my back again, not caring about the blood soaking onto my hands and dripping to the floor. Finding the centre of the pain, I also find something protruding from my skin. It is hard, slippery, and large. Unbelievably so as it pushes through my skin further. I try to scream again, but my throat is rubbed raw. Distantly, I realise that I never stopped. Attempting to shut my mind off from the pain, I squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Malfoy!” A hand grabs at my arms, yanking them in front of me. “Don’t touch them!” I work out that it’s Potter instructing me, and I want to roll my eyes at him trying to save me. My only response—apart from my hands being held at my front and not clawing at my skin—is a growl of pain. I hear Potter say something, but I can’t discern what. Fortunately, I don’t have to think about too much because my wrists are bound in rope. He cast a fucking _Incarcerous_ on me!

A fresh searing burn rises between my shoulder blades, and it stops me yelling at him. I suddenly have a clear image of what I look like, and my stomach twists. The picture in my mind shows a web of bone protruding from my skin, grey and sickly-looking. They are slimy with both synovial fluid and blood. There are no feathers in sight. Regretting thinking about it instead of just letting it happen, I let out a new howl. 

Hands rub at my back, probably trying to ease my pain—or help the bones come through. However, the impromptu massage does nothing to help, instead causing my agony to spike dramatically. I twist my back, trying to dislodge the persistent hands. They seem to get the idea, and rush to remove them. I open my eyes to blood everywhere. I could feel it dripping down my body, but now I can see it. Everything within a metre of me is stained red, and my skin will probably be permanently pink. 

I rotate my head to catch a glimpse of my wings, and nearly faint. They look worse than I imagined. Yes, blood and fluid is dripping off them, but there is far more bone than I had pictured. Most of the structural section of them is outside my back, leaving just the branches where the feathers would sit inside of me. That doesn’t quell the torture of them leaving though. My face is grabbed and I pulled away from the grisly sight. My eyes land on Potter, shooting me a scathing look. Once that wears down though, it leaves behind terror, confusion, and worry. He doesn’t know what this is. Or how long it will take. Or if I’ll even survive it. He schools his features, as if knowing that I’m reading his face. His eyes still give it away though. 

More bone pierces my skin, rising out of my back. I know it’s the last bit, the branches. This should be the easiest, with the bones here becoming thinner and shorter. And it is—for a while. Unfortunately, I underestimated how much grief the tiny bones with sharp edges would cause me. Tears start streaming down my face, leaving tracks in the blood that’s somehow become smeared there. My eyes sting and my hands shake, but nothing I scream stops it happening. The corners of the bones poke into my skin, getting stuck on it and pulling it off my back. I can feel as it tears and rips, causing more blood to trickle down my body.

I think that it’s finished. I can’t detect any more bone in me where it shouldn’t be, and my back feels utterly exposed. I’m about to snap at Potter to release my hands and face, but I can’t. I can’t because the world goes black, and my senses drop away.

***

**3rd April, 1998**

I must stop doing that; passing out. I’m lying on a bed, my stomach pressed heavily into the duvet. There are a couple of things that instantly strike me as unusual. One being that I _never_ sleep on my stomach. A second is that I’m naked from the waist up. I normally sleep in silk pyjamas, not sweatpants and nothing else. The third is that the bed doesn’t feel familiar. At all. And it smells weird, like Potter… Oh no. Memory starts flooding back to me. Everything was red. Blood. Lots, and lots of blood. And pain. Pure agony. Why though? Why was I covered in blood and experiencing torture? Wings. That would explain the way I’m lying on the bed. Potter’s bed…

A gasp from somewhere in the room startles me. Footsteps come racing towards the bed I’m on, gaining speed as they travel. 

“Malfoy! You’re awake!” A voice exclaims.

A sound somewhere between a groan and growl is my response.

“Any pain?”

I make the effort to nod my head, as now it’s been said I am in quite a lot of pain still. Potter retreats from next to me, and I can hear him tinkering with some glass bottles. A rough hand clutches at my hip and drags me onto my hands and knees. Slightly exasperated at the position I’ve been placed in, I make a noise of contest. A laugh, a _laugh_, sounds from him, and he gently pushes at my right side. My hip is forced to the bed, and I find myself sitting awkwardly on one side of my body. The hand leaves me and I shuffle into a more comfortable position. Out of the corner of my eye I can see an oddly coloured bone, and shudder as I realise what it is.

Potter passes me a couple of vials. I recognise some of them; Blood-replenishing potion and a Wiggenweld potion, but others I don’t. 

“What do I need these for?” I ask. I’m suspicious of potions, as some of the ones I was given earlier this year intensified my symptoms instead of relieving them. 

“Well,” he starts. “You lost a lot of blood, all of which was absurdly thin and runny. The others are all various healing potions to make you more alert and to diminish pain.” 

“You sound like a MediWitch,” I scoff, before knocking back each of the vials. I scowl at the last one, a disturbing blue liquid which tastes like bile.

“You should also use this.” Potter passes me another bottle filled with what I think is Murtlap Essence. I don’t see how I’ll use this. 

“For your back,” he clarifies. 

“No,” I sigh. He read my expression wrong. “How will I put it on. I’m meant to rub it into the wound, but it’s between my shoulder blades.”

“Oh.” Colour rises in his cheeks and I think I know what he’s going to say. “I could do it for you.”

Yep, that’s what I thought he’d say.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to nod my head. While the majority of my pain is gone, some of it still remains - mainly the area directly next to my ‘wings’. Potter climbs onto the bed behind me, careful not to touch me anywhere. I hear him uncap the bottle, as well as the slosh of liquid as he draws some out with his wand. Usually you would place the injured part of your body into a little bowl and soak it, but since it’s my back it’s a little too big for that. And I guess my ‘wings’ would get in the way too. The tip of his holly wand presses into my bare skin, and a drip of cold liquid trickles down my back. I shiver as it spreads.

“You okay?” I’m asked. I don’t reply. Another drip is placed onto me, and I follow it with my mind as it runs. I can feel Potter’s eyes on me, watching the essence roll down my back. He draws some more out and splats a lot on at once. Right on the wounds. An audible hiss of steam rises from the cuts, sealing them back together. This part is supposed to hurt, so I must have taken a lot of potions. More than I realised. The hiss continues, grey clouds floating around and filling up the room. Potter makes a strange sound and I turn my head to look at him. 

His stunningly green eyes are fixed on a spot on my lower back, burning holes through me. I try to follow his eyes, but I can’t quite see that part of me. Determined, I think about what he could be seeing. There’s nothing I can think of… Wait. My hand slaps onto my skin, blocking the mark from Potter’s eyes. He does not need to know about that. 

“Malfoy…” he starts. Here we go.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not _nothing_.”

“It is if I say it is.”

“He did this to you, didn’t he?” It may have been phrased as a question, but I know it isn’t. So I don’t respond. Potter sighs. “Malfoy. I can heal it. I can vanish it from existence and you’ll never have to see it again.”

“No.” I swallow hard.

“How come?”

“I don’t want to get into this with you.”

“Fine.” He leaves it at that. There is a slight annoyance in his tone, but it can’t be directed at me as he starts massaging the Murtlap Essence into my back.

An appreciative noise escapes my mouth before I can stop it, and I can feel Potter smile behind me. He rubs harder, a wonderful pressure of hands against my newly-healed injuries. The skin ought to be sensitive, and I think it might’ve been without his potions. As it is, the massage is lovely. The way his hands rub hard into the knots of tension in my back, relieving the pain that should be there. The way I can feel myself becoming looser, becoming happier. Tiredness starts creeping up on me, and I close my eyes. It makes Potter’s hands feel even more intense. I allow myself to hum and press into his touch a bit more. He takes great care to not actually touch the skin around the bones, and I silently thank him for that. 

There is a movement somewhere behind me. It’s not Potter, as I can still feel his warm body a few centimetres from me. And his hands are still rubbing into my skin. But- I focus on where he is touching now, tracking it in my mind. He is moving further up my back, to places he couldn’t reach earlier… My ‘wings’! I twist my head, the sudden movement jerking his hands off of me. It is! My eyes go wide with surprise, and I see Potter nodding at me. 

“They’ve moved…” I whisper.

“They have,” he confirms. 

I smile gently and turn back around, settling down again. Potter laughs.

“Like the massage, huh?”

“Shut up.”

***

I wake up to a silent house and sun streaming through a charmed window. I can see into the street but to anyone outside of the house, it's just more brick. I rub at my eyes wearily. I’m once again on my stomach, allowing my ‘wings’ to spread out behind me in the air. I shuffle around to sit up, the same method that Potter used to get me up this morning. Sitting comfortably, I scan my eyes over the room. It is still a mess. The floorboards are stained with my blood, and the walls are still chipped. But I’m sitting on a bed. How did that get in here? It looks like Potter’s, but it doesn’t smell like him. Confused, I push myself off the mattress and stand up on wobbly legs. 

I look around for my wand and find it under my pillow. Using the hawthorn wood I cast a couple of half-hearted charms at the floor, trying to lift the stains. I give up when nothing happens, and instead cast spells to remove the smell of blood. Those work, so I tuck my wand into the pocket of the trousers I’m wearing. I search around for a shirt I can find, and scowl as the only one is the blood-soaked destroyed one. Sighing, I transfigure it into a new one. Although the charm is only temporary, it will give me something to wear before I can get something new.

Crossing the room, I pull the door towards me and enter the corridor. As I close it behind me, a note catches my attention. It reads:

_Malfoy,_

_I have gone out to buy a couple of things. I’ll be back shortly. _

_Harry - 1307_

So Potter’s gone to the mall. Great. That means I’m left alone in this death machine of a house, with nothing to do. I shake my head and start to head downstairs. Hold on. Mother! Turning back around, I pace the landing to Mother’s room and quietly push her door open. 

She is deeply asleep still, blankets pulled over her shoulders. Her skin is still sickly pale, her hair still grey and thin. I notice a web of sparks above her head, and vaguely recognise them as Healing spellwork. They broadcast her heart rate, breathing rate, and something else I can’t quite remember. Potter must have put them up. I pull the door shut again and creep away from her room. Walking downstairs to get to the kitchen, I let a scowl cross my features. The decor truly is awful. House elf heads hung up on walls, mouldy furniture and fittings, floors and walls that are falling apart. I shudder.

Reaching the kitchen—after going through the stone door at the end of the entryway, down some stairs and into the basement—I start looking for food. The cupboards are mainly empty, unless you want to eat stale meat and bread, so I go through the drawers as well. I don’t expect to find anything, so I’m not surprised when the only thing within the draws is an old muggle clock and a yellowed muggle notebook. With a put upon expression on my face, I reach for the ‘fridge’. I was right. The casing on the outside of the bed I was in in St Mungo’s _does_ look like this ‘fridge’. Cold, hard, white plastic. I open it up and my eyes bug out of my head.

There’s food. Lots and lots of food. I see jars of jam and other spreads, tubs of yoghurt, a whole range of fruit, and loads of other things. Triumphant, I reach for one of the green apples and a vanilla yoghurt. I slice the apple into neat pieces with the only clean knife and open the little tub. Holding a slice of apple, I dip it into the yoghurt and then into my mouth. The combination is delicious for whatever reason, and I eat more of my snack. If my father saw me doing this I’d be starved for a week and beat. But he isn’t here, so I take a big bite. I used to sneak down to the Hogwarts kitchens at night and get the house elves to make this for me, and I would eat it all the time. Since being withdrawn, I haven’t had it once. So I allow myself to indulge.

Once I’m down, I clean up with some charms and head into the drawing room. After my first day here, I spend all of time in this room. Well, when I’m not asleep like I have been. I feel a lot better now though, so hopefully I’ll stop sleeping for nineteen hours a day. I enter the room and find a spot on one of the leather sofas facing the fire. I pick up a book on the table in front of the sofa and flip open to the first page. A sudden urge overwhelms me, and I cast a _Tempus_ charm. It’s quarter past two. Potter’s been gone just over an hour, so he should be back any minute now. Content, I settle down into reading ‘How the Mind Works’ by Steven Pinker. 

Flicking through the pages as I read them, there is nothing but the noise I’m making and the sound of the flickering fire I started a couple of minutes ago. It’s surprising cold for April. Although, I suppose the outdated house isn’t helping any. I turn another page, and near the end of the first chapter. 

“Malfoy?” 

I start, fright spreading through my body. 

“Sorry,” Potter hurried to say. “I was looking for you.”

“How come? Is something wrong?”

“What? No!” A blush rises to his cheeks. “I just thought we could talk. Oh, and to give you this.” He pulls a bag from behind his back and passes it me. Inside it are some folds of fabric.

“You didn’t have to-”

“Nonsense. You have no clothes bar the ones you’re currently wearing. Besides, you’re my guest and you deserve some new clothes.” 

I sigh and let my shoulders drop in defeat. “You’re right,” I murmur. Potter smirks as I accept the bag and look through it. Potter may have said that I deserve new clothes, but I heard the words beneath the sentence. He thinks I need clothes with no memories. With no association to my father or my old life of torture and abuse. When I said he was right, I was agreeing to both the surface, and the hidden, sentence. Because he is. He is right.

***


	5. Part 5

**4th April, 1998**

A day later and the bone-wings still weigh me down. The hideous jut of bone extending from my shoulder blades casts a grey tone to the rest of me. At least most of the blood and synovial fluid has washed off. None of my clothes sit on my back properly, and Potter has had to cut holes into them. He can seal them up again with a couple of charms, but it’s still an annoying and complicated process. And I’m becoming rather bored. Sitting at Grimmauld Place—as I’ve heard Potter call it—with nothing to do but stare at my family-tree tapestry and reread all of the books for the hundredth time. 

I sigh. Wishing I had something else to do, I pack up the drawing room and traverse the stairs. I pace across the landing and into my room, where I allow myself to flop unceremoniously onto my bed. The tension between Potter and I has decreased a little bit, but it is still a raging torrent that could be cut by an axe. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m still on my various medications, drinking eight Potions each morning. At least I can’t actually _ feel _the bone extending from my skin. The jarred skeleton of wings catches on almost everything I pass. I frequently hit them against walls and doors, my skin snagging whenever I reach behind myself for something. 

“You ready to go?” A voice calls out from the corridor. My door is pushed open and I stare as Potter’s head of black hair comes into view. “I’ll take that as a no,” he snarls, annoyed.

“I didn’t know we were going anywhere?!” I leap to my feet and cross the room to stand in front of my mirror. I took Potter’s advice, grudgingly, and ordered some more furniture. Most of it has arrived by now—muggle postage is a drag, but I couldn’t buy from magical shops as I’m supposed to be back in the Manor and couldn’t risk being seen—for which I am incredibly grateful for. I catch his eye in the reflection, vivid green staring back at me. He nods, and I start to cast a network Glamours. Soon, my face is twisted beyond recognition. I’ve decided to replicate the work that he did the night I escaped from St Mungo’s. My skin is once again cool tone and covered in freckles and random red splotches. I watch in amazement as my wings melt away too, hidden by a cloud of air that isn’t there.

Turning away from the mirror, Potter nods an approving head and waves his wand over himself. The signature lightning bolt scar removes itself, as well as the black hair, which fades to sandy brown once again. The eyes stay though. 

“Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“You’ll see.” 

“Thank you greatly, kind sir.”

That draws a startled laugh from him, which he quickly covers with a cough. I smile to myself though, glad that I can still extract a reaction from him. Even if it isn’t a snarl or a punch.

***

I should’ve stayed at his house. I am not used to being out in public, people swarming everywhere. If it was muggle London again it probably would’ve been fine, but no. We are in Diagon fucking Alley. I curse under my breath as soon as I recognise the cobbled streets and exotic displays in the windows. 

“What do you think you’re doing?! Dragging my here!”

“Calm down, Malfoy. No one knows it’s you, you’re Glamoured.”

“They will if you keep saying my name…” I murmur under my breath. He is correct, again. He’s doing that a lot lately. Mind you, that still doesn’t mean that I want to be here. I would much rather jump off a cliff than be spotted in public. 

“What are we doing here anyway?” I ask, hands curling into fists on my waist.

“Shopping.” He pauses thoughtfully. “And I’d stop doing that if I were you.”

My mouth drops open. “Doing what?”

“_ That _,” he says, pointing to me like it’s obvious. It isn’t. “Your mannerisms will give you away,” he sighs.

“My manne- Oh.” My hands instantly drop to my sides, facing morphing into an odd expression. Potter fixes me a weird look before letting a grin spread across his face. 

“Much better, Draidan.”

“Draidan?” Oh. “It is rather, Peter.” I can see a glint in his emerald eyes at the name I chose for him. 

“I see how it is, Draidan. I use your first name, yet you’re insistent on my last.”

I blush furiously for absolutely no reason at all. “It’s _ you _that’s weird. We don’t use first names.”

“True. Very true, Draidan,” Potter says pensively. I can’t help but notice that my name is being repeated a lot. He is clearly testing it out, seeing how his mouth forms around it, how it feels in his mouth. ‘Peter’ feels very similar to ‘Potter’, so I refrain from saying it.

“Follow me,” he commands. His hand finds my elbow and he drags me away from the public Apparition point and down the cobbled street. I yank my arm back, but he clutched onto it again, his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

“Keep it there. Public façades, remember?” Right. We are boyfriends in public again, just like when I escaped St Mungo’s.

“Fine,” I huff. “If you tell me where we are going.”

Potter sighs. “Even though I got you new clothes yesterday, your _ situation _requires a bit more help.”

“Explain.”

“You need to see Professor Parsons.

***

Professor Parsons, as it turns out, is an elderly wizard who specialises in Magical Creatures and Their Transformations. He is essentially a replacement for the shit job the Ministry does and the rude people who serve said creatures. And now I’m one, standing in front of his beechwood, meticulous desk. 

“Good afternoon, young sirs. How may I help you?” 

“Hello, Professor Parsons, this is Draidan.” Potter gestures to me. “He is the one in question today.” In question? Honestly, he really needs to learn how to phrase things more respectfully. 

“What are we doing for him today?”

“He’s a fallen angel, and his wings have just reappeared,” Potter explains. Parsons face drains of colour, his eyebrows tight and drawn.

He reaches for my wrist and tugs me forward. His long, grey beard tickles at the back of my head and neck as he spins me around. Potter watches on, hand in his right pocket. The elderly man starts to feel up my back, searching for something. I’m sure he’s found it when he digs hard into the skin and finds bone beneath his fingers. He slips them up further, reaching where I know the wings should stick out of my back. Parsons sighs behind me.

“You’re under some altering charm, aren’t you?”

“Glamour,” I confess.

“Do you mind removing it?”

“Uh- Yeah, sorry.”

“Just around your back then?”

“Uh.” I turn to Potter, silently asking if that’s a good idea. I personally don’t see much problem—except for the family crest burned into my lower back, the one he freaked out about yesterday—but he might. He seems to think on it for a moment before nodding.

“I’ll remove it,” he states, coming up in front of me with his wand drawn. I spin around so my backs to him as Parsons moves away. Potter’s magic washes over my back, warm and tingly, making the skeletal wings reappear. But my skin doesn’t change colour. I must admit, begrudgingly, that that’s a rather clever and complicated bit of magic.

“Ah,” Parsons mumbles as he sees the jarred and garish bones. “I see.”

Biting back a retort of ‘of course you see now, he just made them visible!’ I turn back around to face Potter. 

“I can immediately see a problem, gents.”

“Which is?” I ask as I clench my hands.

“How did you fall?”

“Oh um. It’s a rather- dark reason.”

“That’s what I feared,” he says pensively. “There’s nothing I can do for you lad.”

“How come?!” 

“If you lost them because of an evil presence, you can only regain them—and survive—if you remove that evil and replace it with good. It seems you’ve already started, by the state of the wings.”

“By the state? They could be worse than _ this _?” Potter asks. I glare at him.

“Of course. I’ve seen ones falling apart and chipped everywhere.”

“Wow,” I whisper. 

“Anyway boys, I can’t do anything to help except give you some pain potions.”

“We’ll take them,” Potter instantly says. I turn to him, a horrified look on my face. 

I cross the small gap between us and murmur to him quietly, “I have no gold. Father has it all locked away.” My face blushes furiously. Money is _ not _something I talk about. 

“I will.”

“But-”

“Nope. Not a word of protest.” He walks over to the counter at the back of the room where Parsons is collecting an array of different coloured bottles. “How much?” He gestures to all of them. 

“120 galleons,” Parsons replies, a smug look on his face.

“For four bottles?” Potter inquires, hand reaching into his left pocket. 

“That’s correct.”

“What about 100?”

“Hmm.” The greedy bastard thinks about it, calculating in his head. “That’ll do nicely.” He nods, sliding the bottles across the counter and towards Potter. “Here you go, lad.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Potter scoops the four bottles up as he passes the coins over. Parsons carefully counts them all out, smiling when he’s done. “Have a nice day,” he calls out as I’m being dragged out of the little shop. The day has quickly come to a close, the sun setting and streaking the sky with reds and pinks. 

“Merlin that was expensive!” I exclaim.

“Well, if it helps the pain at all, it's worth it.”

“I’m glad you think so…” I mumble. 

***

**5th April, 1998**

Potter comes running up the stairs, barging into the drawing room. 

“Okay there?” I inquire, only semi-mocking.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you know some of their plans?!”

“Wha-?” _ Oh _. “Uh- Yeah. I might’ve heard some of them. My father didn’t really like me knowing much though.”

“Anything is better than nothing!”

“Okay then,” I exhale. “Better get some parchment.”

“Fuck parchment!” Potter curses. Instead, he pulls out a small muggle notebook and what I think is a pen. “Muggles have it so much easier.”

“What do you know?” He starts asking questions.

I take a moment to breathe. “They have plans for an attack in May.”

“May? Where?”

“You won’t like it…”

“Tell me anyway.”

“The Unspeakable’s department.”

“The what?! They’re mad.”

“Absolutely,” I nod in agreement.

“Do you know an exact date?”

“I think I was told, but I don’t quite remember. All I know, is that it’s early May.”

“Early May, Unspeakable Department. Got it.” He checks over everything, making sure it’s correct. “Do you know anything else?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” I concede. “I know how they think though, if you’d like to hear that?”

“If it’ll help me figure out their strategies, that would be great.”

“Okay.” I pause. “Hold on. Who are you giving this information to?”

“Don’t know yet,” he confesses. “Probably Hermione.”

“Granger?! You still talk to her?”

“Of course I do!”

“Isn’t she at school? Actually, why aren’t _ you _at Hogwarts?”

“No. Ron, Hermione, and I are all out.” He pauses, and a devilish grin covers his face. “And to save the world, of course.”

“I actually can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.” I mock, laughing despite myself.

“Ha-ha Malfoy,” He taunts, thumping me on the shoulder. I splutter, caught by surprise at the contact. I think this is the first time we’ve ever touched. I don’t think we’ve even knocked into each other. I don’t know how that makes me feel.

“In all seriousness though, I dropped out to find horcruxes,” Potter confesses.

I gasp. “He was right!”

“What do you mean ‘he was right’?”

“The Dark Lord mentioned something about you hunting horcruxes. Said they were hidden in such dangerous locations, and hidden by ridiculously fierce guardians, that you’d never succeed.”

“Wow.” Potter looks stunned. “Do you know anything else?”

“I tried to figure out some of the locations, but I couldn’t think of anything. I’m sorry, but I have no idea where they could be.”

“That’s okay, you’ve helped enough,” he says. “I’d best be going, give this info to someone who can do something about it.”

I nod absently, suddenly plunged deep into thought. As he stands up and paces across the room, footsteps loud and dominating in the silence, I’m drawn out of my mind.

“Oh, and Potter?”

“Yeah, Malfoy?”

“Actually- don’t worry about it.”

***

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. It’s been just over a month since I learned of father’s and the Dark Lord’s plans. Nightmares keep me up at night still, and I’m growing sick of waking up in a cold sweat. The potions Potter bought from Professor Parsons remove all sense of pain, but they were incredibly expensive, and I only have a limited amount. I don’t know how I’ll cope when they run out. After all, there is no book or guide on how to become a ‘risen angel’ as Potter has dubbed it. I think it has a nice ring to it, although I’ll never tell him that.

That’s another odd thing. I no longer feel like I want to shove his head in twenty-four/seven, but only eighteen/four. It’s a strange sensation, but at least I can now get up for food without worrying about him killing me. I spent countless hours going over the various scenarios in my mind. Would he use the Killing Curse? A more creative spell? A weapon? There’s no point pondering over this anymore though, as I no longer fear my death is coming from him. Instead, the constant pressure of the possibility of my father or an angry Dark Lord haunts me. 

“Malfoy?”

“Yeah?” I call out from my bedroom, where I’m trying to paint the walls.

“Could you help with dinner?”

Oh. He’s never asked for my help before. But he’s helped me a lot… “I guess so. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay, thanks!”

Sighing, I finish the line of navy blue paint and place the roller down cautiously. The last thing I want is paint all over the floors—even though I have them covered in plastic, I can still see a disaster waiting to happen.

I race down the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaking steps, and reach the ground floor. The house elf heads still make me nauseous, but I’ve gotten better at ignoring them entirely. Footsteps echoing as I walk through the stone door and into the kitchen, I can smell what must be dinner. I think it’s chicken, but my sense of smell has been really messed up recently. It must have something to do with the pain potions, but I’m not entirely sure. 

“Oh great, you’re here,” Potter says, passing the spoon to me so I can stir the gravy as soon as I’m in sight. He grins as I take it up, starting to stir it around the pot as if it were a cauldron. 

“This is fairly easy,” I state, catching a whiff of the rich gravy—although slightly off. 

“Yeah, I figured you’d like it. It’s a lot like Potions.” Potter opens a weird cupboard, pulling the lid so that it’s parallel to the ground. It makes an odd whoosh as it’s opened, and heat swarms out of it. I watch intrigued as he pulls out a tray of chicken. I was right about that at least.

“What is that?” I ask, curious about the muggle contraption. Because it has to be muggle. Wizards would never create something so strange. 

“It’s an oven,” he explains. “It cooks food using a fan and a heat source.”

“Oh,” I say. “That kind of makes sense.”

We keep cooking in silence, and soon we have the dining table set and wine ready to be poured- technically I am under the muggle drinking age, but everyone in the Wizarding world starts drinking around fifteen. I take my usual seat at the left of the head, and Potter takes the seat opposite me. Neither of us want to fill the most important seat at the table, although I imagine our reasons are different. I don’t want to sit there because that was always my father’s seat. I assume that Potter sits opposite me to show that he isn’t above me—that we are _ equals _. He does a lot of things with that in mind, I think. Even though we are both in rather shit situations right now, we have somehow come up with a method to the madness. One that allows us to be ourselves, and to live another day. 

***


	6. Part 6

**12th April, 1998 **

A week has passed since I told Potter everything I know. Since I helped him cook dinner and realised that I didn’t hate him. I don’t know which one scares me more. Potter hasn’t brought up the Dark Lord again, but I know it’s at the forefront of his mind. Always there, plaguing every short conversation and each gaze across the room. Because that’s something we’ve started doing. I don’t know why, but something about the way he moves is fascinating. No longer the skinny, small boy from Hogwarts, but a man. I know it’s ridiculous. He is still only seventeen, hell I’m only seventeen, but he seems so much older. The boy from school would’ve rather mocked me and ran than save me. I guess that’s what war does to you though. Makes you grow up. Because I wouldn’t have asked for him to save me last year. 

Sick of contemplating the past and comparing it to the present, I stand up from my bed and pace around the room. I’m much happier with my room now. Navy blue coats the walls, a rich jewel tone which complements the dark floorboards nicely. White furnishings and some mirrors make for a contemporary style room, and I quite like it. My grandfather would roll in his grave, but I think that’s one of the things I like about it. It’s different from what I know. No emerald green or silver, only neutral colours. Colours that don’t make me think of my old life. 

Thoughts turning away from my room and towards Potter, I pull out a white chair and sit in front of my desk. I pick up my quill and start mapping out my life. Visual representations of what I’m going through help me organise my thoughts. It’s not quite compartmentalising, which I try to stay away from, but it does help. I write my name in the centre of the parchment and draw a rough circle around it. Like a muggle mind-map that I’ve seen Potter using. A line is next, and I drag my hand quickly up to the top of the page, where I write ‘Malfoy Manor’, and draw a circle around it too. I repeat this multiple times with ‘Fallen Angel’, ‘Mother’, and ‘Potter’. Then I start scribbling bits and pieces onto more lines coming off of the titles. I make notes about father and Voldemort’s plans, my mother and how she’s holding up, and all of my symptoms. The parchment is mostly filled with messy, tiny handwriting, and there are a couple of blotches and smudges. 

Potter’s bubble is last, but once I get to it I don’t know what to write. He seemed important enough to include, but now I just don’t know. Deciding to put it off for the meanwhile, I draw a big question mark next to his name. I have no idea how I feel about him; apart from the fact that I don’t hate him. I know little about him, yet I want to learn more. But I don’t? It’s like something inside of me wants to know him, _ be friends with him, _while the other doesn’t at all. Sighing, I fold the page up and tuck it under my pillow, an old habit. 

“Malfoy?!” Potter calls from the landing. Speak of the devil. Or, the _ Saviour. _

“In here!” I shout back to him. Heavy footsteps move closer before pushing the door open. His green eyes are creased along the edges, his fists tight by his sides. Posture closed off and looking determinedly at a spot behind me, he says, “It's your mother.”

With no explanation, he turns and flees the room, walking back through the landing. I jump up and follow him, concern growing.

“What about Mo-”

“Shh. You’ll see.” His voice is gruff and scarred. The perfect image of the two of us, really. 

When Potter enters the room, he gestures for me to be quiet and slow. Nodding, I walk into Mother’s bedroom. She is pale. More so than ever before. White would be the best word to describe her, white and clammy. The grey tinge has vanished, and nothing’s been left to replace it. Her hair is fanned out around her on the pillow, a mass of lifeless strands. Grey has been pushed aside by steel, an unnatural colour on her. This isn’t normal. Normal illnesses wouldn’t do this to her. This is something else. Something else entirely. 

“What is it?” I ask Potter, hoping that he’ll know. I’m not disappointed. 

“It looks like a form of rapid aging…” he replies. “I’ve asked Hermione, I’m just waiting for her response. But I think it might be caused by the trauma of the Manor, mixed with her stress over your health.” 

My mouth works open and close, my brain short-circuiting. 

“Can I help?”

“Not in any way that I’m aware of.”

“Oh no…” I stand beside and hold one of her hands. It’s cold to the touch. Like her blood isn’t warm anymore. Sighing, I trace my thumb along her veins. One goes to each of her fingers, then joins back up in a blocky ‘n’. I touch my hand to her forehead, feeling faint warmth rising to meet my skin, as well as her small and unsteady breaths. My strong and capable mother, reduced to lying on a bed. Potter’s spare bed. How upside my world has turned. Tapping on glass pulls me from my thoughts, and my eyes follow Potter as he turns away from me and walks out of the room. I can’t see him anymore, but his footsteps are loud in the quiet and he all-but slams the window open and closed. 

Letter in hand, he comes up to me back in Mother’s room. It’s a heavy parchment, a Ministry seal on it. Maybe they’ve found me?

“It’s from ‘Mione,” he clarifies when he sees my face. “It was her owl, probably about your mother.” He jerks his head to the shadow of what Mother used to be.

“Then let’s open it!” I exclaim, almost tripping over myself to move closer. Too close, really. Oh well. This is important, and I refuse to feel stupid for standing to close to Potter. Honestly. 

Tearing it open, he unfolds the parchment and starts reading. I scan it too, searching for something helpful. 

_ Dear Harry, _

_ I’m sorry that this is happening, and I will try to explain what I believe it to be. _

_ You mentioned pale skin and grey hair. Almost like sudden rapid aging. The only problem is that her skin wouldn’t have turned white, but rather become clammy with a purple-blue tinge. The fact that she’s drained of colour worries me. Check her blood first. You should be able to feel warmth radiating off of her skin. If you can’t, you need to test her bleeding time; instructions are enclosed. _

_ Second, check her breathing. It’s probably a little out of time and shallow because of illness, but it should be relatively regular. If it isn’t, then we have cause for worry. There isn’t much you can do apart from checking and clearing her airways at this point. However, if it stops entirely you need to perform CPR (instructions enclosed). _

_ Third (and the last thing I can think of currently) is to take a skin sample. If she is exhibiting signs of rapid aging her skin should hold some clue or reason as to why. This is a tricky process and should only be carried out if needed. Send me the sample if it is required (instructions are also enclosed). _

_ Tell Malfoy that I hope his mother gets well, and that he does too. _

_ Kind regards, _

_ Hermione Granger. _

_ 12th April 1998._

Potter’s eyes meet mine, panic visible beneath the green. It’s mirrored in my own eyes, and I feel myself begin to break down. A tear threatens to drop, my fists tightening beside me. When another joins it, I dig my nail into my skin to draw the emotion away. Swallowing hard, I turn around and face Mother again. My hand ghosts over her skin again, this time paying much more attention. I had noticed a lack of heat before, but I’d thought nothing of it. Now though, it seems colossal. Knowing Potter is watching me, I shake my head. No warmth. Paper rustles behind me, and it’s quickly followed by a groan. 

“Fuck bleeding time,” he curses. 

“Difficult?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

“Exceptionally.”

“I’m surprised you know such a long word.” 

He scoffs before passing me the parchment. Shit. It _ is _difficult. 

Muttering under my breath that _ of course _I have to do it this way, I summon my wand from my room. 

“You’re really gonna do this, Malfoy?”

“I have to.”

“I could do it.”

“You’d fuck it up.”

“Probably, yeah.” He steps closer to me, his chest only a short distance from my back. “I’m going to at least watch.”

“Okay.” I swallow hard.

Pressing the tip of my wand to her delicate skin, I softly say, “Diffindo.” Swiftly, I make a tiny cut and remove my wand again. I cast a Tempus charm to check the time, and I watch as the blood starts rising to the surface. I press a piece of fabric to her forearm and stare as it changes colour with the blood. Red stains the white of the fabric, creating a gruesome artwork in the process. It stops. I glance at the charm still hovering next to me and frown. It was barely a minute. Not even. The blood should have been flowing for about nine minutes, instead it only lasted fifty two seconds. 

“Fifty two,” I murmur. Potter hums behind me, his close proximity startling me. I knew he was close, but not _ that _close. 

“It’s meant to bleed for-”

“Nine minutes, I know.”

“Well fuck.”

“You can say that again.”

He does. I allow a small smile to play on my lips, before forcing it away and turning to face him. When he doesn’t hurry to step back, I walk backwards so that I’m leaning against Mother’s bed. He looks disappointed for a second before reaching for Granger’s letter again. “Check her breathing.”

I nod before leaning over her. I line my ear up to her mouth and look down at her chest. Puffs of air hit my cheek and I can faintly hear breath from her nose. There is little movement in her chest, and I pull away.

“It’s weak at best,” I tell Potter. He groans before pushing me aside with his hand on my back and taking my spot next to her. 

“I’ve done classes on this, I can help.”

Before I can say anything, he has his hand on her jaw with his thumb and index finger creating a tick. It looks like muggles’ depictions of philosophers thinking. He then easily opens her mouth and looks inside. Shaking his head, he reaches for his wand. The holly flies into his hand and he raises it to her open jaw. Then he utters something I don’t hear and flicks his wand. Eyes glued to her chest, I gasp as it rises immediately. Potter copies my position from earlier and smiles. 

“She’s breathing, Malfoy.” His stunningly green eyes sparkle, an unusual sight these days, unlike from our earlier years at Hogwarts. 

“What was stopping her?”

“There was something weird in the way. It felt magical, perhaps cursed, but that’s pretty much all I got from it.”

“Father.” Realisation hits me and I know what’s happened. “My father did this.”

“How?” He gasps. “When?”

“He must have been torturing her while we were at Malfoy Manor…”

“Do you have proof? This is serious.”

“No. Only my memories of hearing screaming at night.”

“When was this?”

“A little while before I started being tortured.” It’s hard to get out. The word threatening to become stuck in my throat. I think back to the feelings of utter devastation and desperation. The depression and hopelessness. I never want to experience that again, let alone the physical aspects. I nearly pass out just from thinking about it. 

Potter sighs and his hand finds my lower back. This time it isn’t to push me out of the way, but rather to comfort me. He recognised the look in my eyes, the one part of me that I can’t school into calm nonchalance. His hand seeps warmth, a lovely pressure against a sensitive part of my body. I swallow hard, turning around to face him. The worry is etched on his face, and I feel like collapsing at what I’m causing him to feel. Instead though, he wraps his arms around me and drags me to him. He’s hugging me. I’ve not been hugged in years. He rests his chin on my shoulder, hands rubbing at my skin through my clothes. Sighing, I allow myself to almost, almost, melt into his touch. Potter makes no move to let go, so I rest my chin on his shoulder too, and burrow my face into his neck. The smell of green apple fills my senses, and I hum softly. 

***

Sun streams through a window and hits my face. The warm rays heat my face up to a lovely temperature for this time of year, and I moan happily. I reach for the covers to pull them up, and my eyes fling open. There aren’t any. Where am I? Startled and confused, I scan my eyes around the room without moving and trying to keep my breathing regular. I see off-white, more like cream, coloured walls and maple wood floorboards. I’m in a room. That’s a start. From where I’m lying I can see little furniture, suggesting that whoever’s room I’m in isn’t here very often. I _ can _see, however, a bookshelf. I squint, trying to make out some of the titles. I see Quidditch Through the Ages, a bunch of Hogwarts textbooks, and nothing else. So they went to Hogwarts… 

I try to hear for any movement or breathing, but there isn’t anything. They aren’t here. I slowly sit up, waiting for a blow to my head. When none comes, I’m really confused. I sweep my eyes around the room, and a messy desk and hard chair come into view. There are papers spread everywhere, potion vials scattered and weird muggle _ inventions _next to them. So they use muggle things… There are a few people that come to mind, but none of them would want to find me. Right? Shaking my head to clear it, I allow myself to groan softly. The door flies open, it’s hinges silent. The only thing that gives it away is the whoosh of air and the banging as it hits the wall. 

“You’re awake!” A voice shouts. A voice I would recognise anywhere.

“Potter.” I sigh, dragging my hand to my face and rubbing the bridge of my nose. 

“How are you feeling?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You fell asleep last night.” 

Oh yeah. A blush rises to my cheeks as I remember. Potter hugged me. And I stayed there, his arms wrapped securely around me. After a while we had moved into the drawing room and sat in front of a crackling fire. He had told me about some of what was being planned to stop my father. About various traps and undercover agents who were going to try to get more information from him directly. And with everything gained, a battle against Voldemort was inevitable. But we didn’t linger in that for too long, as I ended up falling asleep listening to him talk. 

“I guess I did,” I utter nervously. I can’t believe I allowed myself to do that. What if something had happened?

Potter stands in the doorway, silently thinking. “You should come get something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” It’s true. But he doesn’t need to know _ why _I’m not hungry. He doesn’t need to know what I’d thought had happened.

“Well, come on a walk then. You haven’t been out of Grimmauld Place for ages.”

“It’s only been a couple of days…”

“Malfoy. It’s been over a week.”

“And? I don’t _ need _to go outside.” It might be dangerous.

“Yes. Yes you do,” Potter argues. He takes a deep breath and walks into the room. His room. 

“At least get up and be presentable, Malfoy.”

“What?” Startled, I gaze down my body. I’m an absolute mess. There are wrinkles from the mattress pressed into my arms, and my clothes from the day before are twisted. Looking into the mirror across from me, I can see that my hair is in shambles. Like Potter’s usually is. Or, was. Now, it’s growing out slightly and has to be secured behind his head. When it’s out, it’s just passed his ears, making his face seem longer and softer. More open. Blinking rapidly, I leap up and off the bed, his bed, and rush to stand in front of the mirror. I summon my wand and it flies into my hand from the bedside table. I spell my hair neat again, nodding. My clothes are refreshed with a cleaning charm and the creases in my skin are Glamoured away. “Much better,” I say.

“Much better,” Potter agress. “Now change into something else, put up the usual Glamours, and let’s leave for a while.” He turns around and leaves the room, walking downstairs. I follow out of his room, but step into mine instead. I swap for a new outfit—a pressed black shirt and some dark blue jeans, with white oxfords—and then cast Glamours on my face again. I watch as my hair darkens into strawberry blond tresses, as my skin cools and as red pokes through it. But the weirdest part is my eyes. The grey is replaced by shining silver once again, and I stare at my reflection. Sighing, I turn and leave my bedroom. I look odd. Nothing like me. But the eyes are beautiful. Still mine, but different. A melancholy feeling takes over me as I descend the stairs. I hate having to play dress-up to be able to go outside. 

“Let’s go,” I call to Potter over my shoulder. 

“Look who’s all excited to be going out now,” he chides. 

I glare as he opens the front door for me and once again as he grabs ahold of my hand on the front steps. 

“Do we have to do this?”

“Probably not, no.” Potter confides. “But pretending to be together creates a reason for you staying at my place for so long.”

“I guess so…” I murmur. I don’t know why, but I feel uneasy doing this. It’s no longer an easy way to blend in, but a hinderance I can’t understand. My heart clenches painfully and I tug my hand away. Potter frowns but doesn’t mention it as he locks the front door the muggle way. Anything to keep up the disguise. Why does it bother me so much?


	7. Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussion about Draco’s past torture/abuse. It is semi-graphic, so it’s not too detailed. It has the potential to become more graphic as the story progresses though. Enjoy! Xx

**12th April, 1998 (continued)**

The walk to wherever it is we are going is draining. Having not left the house in a while, I blink a couple of times at the street in front of me. Somehow, I forgot where we are. I forgot that I am staying with Harry Potter, in a dingy street in muggle London. I worry about my appearance. But not in the way I would’ve used to. It’s not the vain, arrogant concern I had earlier this year, but rather being terrified of standing out. If someone caught a glimpse of my white-blond hair, or the distasteful and regretful tattoo inked across my arm, I would be in trouble. But as we pass an abandoned house with the windows still in tact, I glimpse my reflection. Somehow, I had managed to forget that I am covered head to toe in Glamours. Forgot that my platinum hair is now strawberry blonde, and that my tattoo is invisible underneath red skin. 

“Where are we going?” Not _ where are you taking me? _ Like it would’ve been a week ago. Before I realised he thought of us as equal. As my _ deserving _to be an equal. I shudder and hope it’s not noticeable.

“A bookstore.”

“A bookstore?” I turn my gaze to the man—no longer a boy, despite his young age—and raise an eyebrow. “That seems kind of random.”

“It’s a special bookstore,” he shrugs. I hold my laugh in, choosing to hide from his gorgeously green eyes. He hasn’t wrapped himself in Glamours like I have. Instead of the cropped sandy-brown I’ve become used to seeing in public, his black hair is hanging loose around his ears. It looks good on him. _ Oh Merlin. _

“What’s so special about it?” 

He turns to me, his hand slipping from mine and grabbing my shoulder to make me face him. All for the people who may or may not be watching. Keeping up appearances. “It has books you won’t, you _ can’t _, find anywhere. If you catch what I’m saying.”

I think I understand. Well, it could be one of two things… “Please tell me it’s the former,” I murmur.

“What?” 

“Nothing.” I shake my head. Thinking out loud now too? What is happening to me? Aside from the obvious bone-wing thing.

It starts to rain softly as we walk, but eventually Potter drags me into a little shop in a quaint street. It’s a lot bigger inside than I would’ve thought, and I think of Undetectable Extension charms. The walls are coloured a soft off-white, and the carpet underfoot is a light grey. The whole shop is warm and cozy, welcome despite being the middle of spring. Rows and rows of bookshelves fill the room. There are paper-bound books, leather-bound, and hardcovers. Books that cover every topic imaginable. Some are clearly muggle, with science books explaining the world as well as their range of history. And then there’s books called ‘fantasy’ which seem to be mocking the Wizarding World and twisting it. But muggles don’t know about our world, so maybe they made these all up? 

“Draidan?”

I’m pulled from my thoughts by a hand on my shoulder. Shaking my head, I look up and see Potter and a woman with light brown hair staring at me. “Sorry. May you repeat that?”

Potter fights a laugh and opens his mouth to speak again. “Draidan, this is Madame Cynthia Owens. She is the owner of Bottomless Books.”

I offer the woman my hand, and she shakes it gladly. “Mr?”

“Malloi. Draidan Malloi.”

“Well, Mr. Malloi, what would you like me to do for you?”

I glance at Potter for a moment. He looks surprised by my quick thinking. Malloi is so similar to Malfoy, I figured it’d be easy to remember. It also helps that I used it as an alias whenever I left the Manor, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“I was hoping you had some books on-”

“Salazar Slytherin,” Potter cuts in. I shoot him a glare. That wasn’t at all what I thought we were doing here.

“Oh, well if you would come right this way.” Madame Warren’s behaviour totally shifted. She stood up taller and lead us to the very back of the shop and behind a curtain. “Now boys. This is just like Platform 9 ¾, so run through if you must.”

I’m very confused, but all the same I walk behind the wall. On the other side is another bookshop. It is massive, filled with more books than the Hogwarts Library. They are all neatly arranged and organised, listed alphabetically and in topic. 

“We have a very wide range of books from the Wizarding World, what are you after?”

Madame Warren comes back into view behind me, and I stop in my tracks. Her appearance has totally changed. In the first store she looked to be in her late fifties, but here she is clearly in her thirties. Her hair has grown longer and thicker, a sheet across her back. Her clothes have shifted into modern Wizarding attire and her skin has cleared. She catches me looking and nods, a small smile on her face. 

“The muggles trust older women the most, so I disguise myself for the front shop. It’s really just a façade, the entire store. My main business is back here, with people like you.”

“So the front bookstore is a muggle one?”

“Correct,” Potter agrees beside me. When did he get so close? “It is designed to lure people in, and if you say something clearly Wizarding you are taken back here.”

“Why did you choose Salazar of all things?”

He has the sense to look a little sheepish.

“A week ago after we bought your potions, I sent Cynthia a letter. We agreed that Salazar Slytherin would be our password so she’d know it was us.” 

“Yes, it saves me having to question customers about who they are.” Madame Warren smiles. “So, back to business,” she quirks an eyebrow, and I remember her asking what we were after.

“Of course. We were hoping you might have some books on fallen angels.” 

“Ooh. I’ll have to ask you some questions then.” 

“Peter is really the one to ask,” I say, quickly drawing her attention away from myself and towards the man next to me. 

“Draidan’s right, but he _ will _have to answer some I can’t.” His stern gaze turns to me before looking back at Madame Warren. “It’s for his friend,” he rushes to explain. 

“Of course,” she readily accepts the lie. “What specifically were you after?” 

I watch as they both turn away and walk along one of the rows near us. There is a black sign reading ‘Fantastical Creatures’ in white letters above the place they stop. Deciding that I don’t want to watch them contemplate books any more than I have to, I turn around and scan through the books. The section I’m in is labelled ‘Dark Proceedings’. I’m instantly reminded of my father and the reason why I’m here in the first place. A shiver races up my spine and I hurriedly move down the shelf. The new section is ‘Solving Inquiries’ and I sigh to myself in exasperation before reading through the titles. I’m so predictable. The only books I ever read are Auror novels, wizards trying to crack murder cases. It helps make me feel more in control, reading about people taking down men like the ones in the Manor.

One of them stands out to me. It is a book bound in a beautifully deep red, with black letters spelling out ‘Coloured Veins’. Well, that explains the colouring. I flip it over and read through the blurb. It’s about a world not unlike my own, but one of the witches can see people’s emotions by the colour of their veins. She goes her whole life thinking everyone can see them, only to bring it up and be shot down by others around her. Both figuratively and literally. It seems really interesting, so I charm it to float behind me as I continue searching. 

***

“You were talking to Madame Warren for a while,” I point out to Potter as we arrive back at his house. 

“Yeah, the circumstances are apparently really unusual, so it took a while to find something relevant.”

“Well. What did you find?”

He shakes his head exasperatedly. “There is a book dedicated to fallen angels in recovering. Or rising angels, as you know I call them.” I don’t bite back my chuckle, and he smiles at me for a second, making my chest ache. Why though? “Anyway, it details a few things we can do to ease the process and just other information.”

“Great, okay.” I sound a bit flustered to my own ears, and pray Potter doesn’t notice. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. 

“I think I’ll read it first, and then tell you the relevant parts for you to read first. Of course, you can read all of it if you’d like.”

That said, he turns away and walks up the stairs and into the drawing room. I follow after him and take a seat in the armchair next to the sofa. Potter looks up as I sit down, gives me a smile, and opens the book. I pull out my own and flick to the first page of Coloured Veins. In front of the fire, we are very cozy. The silence drifts around us, only broken up by breathing and the occasional crackle. 

Hours pass of us sitting kind of near, but also kind of far, from each other. I get through the first few chapters and become hooked, and Potter has been taking messy notes with a weird muggle _ thing _that acts like a quill. He rushes to stand up, the book falling off his lap with a thud. 

“I forgot!” He exclaims.

“You forgot what?” I ask without looking up from my novel.

“I need to talk to Hermione!” With no further explanation, we races out of the drawing room and down the stairs. In the distance, the sound of a stone door banging closed reaches my ears. What would he have forgotten about to run to the kitchen? Unless… Surely not. Why would he?

Scolding myself for thinking about it, I return to my book. There was no way he’d told Granger about my back. Either the wings, or the crest. Hopefully not the crest.

***

An hour or so later, Potter returns to the drawing room. Someone follows behind him, and I watch as Granger enters too. She spares me a glance before taking a seat next to Potter in front of the fire. She tsks before raising her wand to it. “Honestly boys. It’s far too hot.” She flicks her wand, but the fire doesn’t go out. Instead, she forms a shield around which catches some of the heat from the flames. It fades from purple to clear, and a smile crosses her face. “Much better.” 

“It really didn’t matter…” Potter tries.

“Nonsense. Look at Malfoy.”

He does, and he clearly sees something because he shakes his head and grins. “He looks like Malfoy.”

“I’m right here you know.” I don’t look up from my book, but I can _ feel _him grin and roll his eyes simultaneously.

“We’re aware.” Granger says. “I was merely pointing out that your pink skin has already become whiter.”

I scrunch my nose up before slamming my book closed and standing. “If you need me I’ll be in my bedroom.”

“Actually,” Potter interrupts. “I think you should hear this.”

“Don’t see why…” I murmur. Placing my book down onto the coffee table, I sit back down and glance up at the people in front of me for the first time.

“Because,” Potter explains with an annoyed tone, “it’s about your _ issue. _”

“My issue? Which one?” I ask him in a deadpan voice, eyes meeting his. 

“The one concerning your father and Voldemort.” Granger looks amused at our exchange, but I recoil when she says the Dark Lord’s name. 

“That quite a few of my problems…” Regardless of my shock, I carry on.

“Haha,” she says, face humourless. “The one where in half a month they want to scream bloody murder in the Unspeakables’ Department.”

“Oh.” That one. I was getting rather good at ignoring it. Guess I have to go back to having nightmares about somehow ending up there and being tortured. Fun. Oh Merlin.

“Yep.” Granger’s voice is way to cheery, and I want to strangle her. 

“I was thinking, Malfoy. Could you tell her everything you know about it?”

“But I’ve already told you…?” Potter really wants me to repeat our conversation. The last time I said this I felt awful. Helpless and useless. 

“I know, but I want to make sure everything is covered exactly.” His emerald eyes soften, telling me that he knows the pain, but that it’s necessary to take _ him _down.

“Okay, fine.” I take a deep breath and prepare myself to speak.

“The Dark Lord and my father called me into one of their meetings in about, um, the beginning of March?” My hand starts shaking, so I pin carefully move my left to cover the wrist and gently squeeze it. It acts as an anchor, something else to focus on then the conversation I’m being forced into having. Potter is nodding opposite me, his eyes flickering to my wrist for just a second before travelling back up to my eyes. His face turns grim, mouth a thin line, but Granger just nods and jots down notes with her version of Potter’s muggle quill. “They plan to crash the Unspeakables’ Department, which you already knew… The plans were for the start of May, but that could’ve changed.”

“Do you know the exact date?” Granger questions, glancing up at Potter and I. 

“If I knew at some point I don’t remember now. It’s definitely in the first week though.” I recall something about it being planned for April, but having to be moved. I think. Replaying that to Granger, I watch as Potter stands and stretches. His muggle shirt lifts and a sliver of stomach is revealed above his jean’s waist. I tear my eyes away, but not before he notices. Fuck. I’ve become slightly addicted to seeing things like that in this past week. Just accidental clothing movement, each time revealing a little bit more skin than is usually visible. And he’s become quite good at catching me. At least he never brings it up. 

“I’m going to go fetch tea. Do you want some?” So that’s why he’s getting up. Granger hums in agreement, and I politely accept. Horror races the length of my spine at being left alone, I’m with Granger, but it’s close enough. I force myself to stamp it down.

“Is that the extent of what you know?” Granger asks. 

“I think so, yeah.”

“Okay. Could you tell me about their way of life in general?”

“I could. To an extent, of course.”

“My first question will be why, then.” She draws a line across the page and scribbles down a new heading.

“While I was there I was a prisoner. Not a son, or an accomplice, or whatever you probably thought. I was kept in my bedroom all day, and the food was passed in and out in intervals. That was always the scraps of what they fed to their workers. Basically inedible by the time I got it.”

“I see. What effect did that have mentally?”

“I'm not finished with the way they treated me, but if you want to move on…?”

“Oh. I thought that would be all, given your blood and where your loyalties lie.”

I scoff. “They stopped caring about blood. Mine, at least. And my _ loyalties _were proven elsewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, a look on her face saying that we’ll talk about that last bit later.

“Don’t be.” It was maybe a little harsher than I’d intended, but I’m not taking it back. “I was tortured constantly. That was the only time I was let out of my room. It would last for hours, and nothing, _ nothing, _was considered too bad. Legilimency, the Cruciatus Curse, breaking bones, threatening to bleed me out. I could be here all day,” I explain, the last bit bitter. Extremely so. “I was occasionally permitted leave. I usually took my broom and flew somewhere far away.”

“Why did they let you leave? What if you hadn’t come back?”

“They has trackers on me. And in me. They always knew exactly where I was, and if I wasn’t back in the time limit I’d be cruelly beaten and isolated for days.” Granger’s eyebrows drawn down. “That kept me on schedule every time but once,” I chuckle cruelly.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what did they do as punishment?”

Taking a deep breath, I nod solemnly. “I understand that it needs to be said.” She gives me an encouraging but sad smile and ducks her head to write. “I was beaten into unconscious, for a start. Then I was confined to my room, which is pretty normal, now that I look back. Anyway, they came up with some extreme wards. No one except for my father and the Dark Lord could come and go from my room. If I tried I would be electrocuted. And not gently. If that happened four times, I would’ve been instantly killed.” Granger sighs as she writes. “As an extra form of torture, physcological this time, they allowed me to write letters. Allowed me to beg for help on paper, with no way of getting it to someone.”

She takes her muggle quill off the parchment and looks at me. “But you did. You got a letter to Harry, and you are _ safe. _I’m sorry I had to dig this up.”

I nod shakily, clutching at my wrist tighter. “Should I tell you how I got it out? It’s a weak spot into the Manor.”

“If you feel up to it.”

I make myself speak. Everything needs to be out there, in the open, if we are to take them down. “There was a vent in my bedroom’s en-suite. I used some sort of charm, one that emitted green sparks, to push it along the vents. It flew through the kitchen, to the dining room and out of the window. When it blasted through the wards, 

somehow undetected, the sparks rebound back into my wand.”

Granger is gobsmacked. “That’s amazing. I’ll need you to tell me about that spell later.” She makes a scribble at the bottom of her page. “So you’re saying, that if we hypothetically shrunk someone down, and somehow got them through the wards, that there’d be a direct route into your bedroom?”

“Yep. Although, it’s quite a long route with many turns. It’d take ages for someone unfamiliar with the Manor to get there. And once there, they wouldn’t be able to do anything. That end of the Manor is essentially just bedrooms for my family. Not to mention the wards.” I shudder. 

Granger’s face seems to light up. “What if we, hypothetically again, sent _ you _in?”

“The wards would probably shred me into a million pieces. I’ve no doubt been removed.”

She hums, thinking out loud. “We’ll have to find someone else then. Someone you could help from the outside…” Her muggle quill moves across the page again. 

Granger starts firing off more and more questions, this time about the Manor in general. She sketches out a rough floor-plan of the ground level, adding details about the rooms as she goes. Halfway through, Potter returns with three cups of tea. Each of them look and smell different, and he passes them out to all of us. Mine is Peppermint. My absolute favourite at Hogwarts, as my father wouldn’t allow me to drink it at the Manor. Something about it not being _ actual _tea. I smile at Potter as he passes it to me, our hands bumping for a second too long. As I take a sip, I allow the warm liquid to soothe a path from my mouth to my stomach. Granger absentmindedly hands him the parchment for him to look over as she turns the conversation away. It becomes happier things like Quidditch. Not that even Quidditch calms me down anymore. I now associate it with flying back from Skiddaw Mountain, and the ensuing torture that was the next week.

By the time we finish our tea, and Granger has drawn up the entire Manor, it’s grown dark outside and is starting to become light again. Muffling yawns, Potter says goodbye to his friend and she rushes out via the Floo. I have no idea where she is staying, but it’s not with the Weasley’s. Something about too many casualties if anything was to go wrong. And she isn’t with her parents either, as she removed all knowledge of herself from them. I can’t imagine how difficult that would’ve been for a lot of reasons. Mainly because I’ve never had a parent, or anyone for that matter, care enough. Sure, my mother cares, but not enough to let me switch worlds and become entangled with a war. No, mine made me. 

“Alright, Malfoy?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just thinking.”

Potter smiles, a gentle lift of the corners of his soft-looking mouth. “Well, goodnight then. If you need potions to sleep there should be some in the bathroom.”

“Goodnight, Potter.” How did he know I would need potions? Then again, he might need them too, after the things we spoke about.

“Oh, and Malfoy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do I have to keep calling you that?”

“Calling me what?”

“By your last name. Surely you don’t want to be associated with your father every day.”

I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “Call me Draco.”

  
  
  



	8. Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part has some more semi-graphic transformations in it. It’s not as realistic as last time, but if gore isn’t your thing then you’re warned. Xx

**15th April, 1998**

“Hey Draco?” My stomach starts fluttering, a shiver racing down my spine. I’m still not used to it. Not used to Harry, _ Harry, _addressing me like a friend. Like someone important to him. Of course, he can’t know how much it delights me.

“Yeah?” I glance up from the book in my lap. 

“Do you want to help me cook dinner?” Again. I’ve been helping him for a while now, but every time he asks I get nervous. Worried I’ll fuck up terribly and explode his house. Cooking does _ not _work for me, despite being, in my opinion, amazing at Potions. Mind you, Harry is the opposite. He sucks at Potions but is great in the kitchen. 

“I guess so,” I say, mustering all the nonchalance in the world. “What is it?”

Harry smirks, his eyes glistening in the dull light of my doorway. “Chicken Balti.”

“Merlin,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Last time we tried we couldn’t tell the kitchen apart from a spice shop.”

“All the more reason to try again!” He grins. “May I?” He gestures to my room, and I nod. Walking in, he reaches his arms out and grabs my hands. I’m pulled off of my bed and dragged out of my room. Fighting the urge to pull Harry closer, I instead pull my hand away. 

I don’t know when I started having urges like that. They have become a big part of my day though. Constantly wanting to touch the man near me, but not letting myself reach out. Constantly biting my tongue so I don’t let anything slip. It’s exhausting but thrilling at the exact same time. And I’m terrified. I know what it means. I’m not stupid. I _ like _him. But why the fuck do I like him? I should hate him. Right?

“Draco?” 

I’m pulled from my obsessive mind by Harry’s hand on my shoulder. We are standing in the kitchen now. “Hmmm.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“You just, I don’t know, zoned out.”

“Oh. Just thinking.”

“About what?” A smile tugs at his lips.

I don’t reply, just shake my head and move his hand off me. “It’s not important.” I know I sound dismissive, but he can’t know. “Where’s the chicken?”

Harry shakes his head, but points to the ‘fridge’. We start collecting all of the spices, herbs, liquids, and bowls. The counter is piled high with every spice under the sun. I pull the recipe closer to me and read off the first step. “Put the chicken in a medium, and mix in the lime juice, paprika, chilli powder, and a grinding of black pepper. Then leave to marinate for at least fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll do the chicken, you add the juice.” I nod at Harry’s suggestion. He learned last time how much I dislike handling raw meat. It’s slimy, and gross, and _ weird. _I flat the bowl in front of Harry, who puts the chicken into it and then slides it towards me. The lime juice tips itself in as Harry mixes in some paprika. I drop the chilli powder in as he adds some pepper. 

“Step one is complete,” I say. 

“That it is. What’s next?”

We work through the remainder of the steps, and eventually it’s simmering on the ‘stove’. I don’t see why we couldn’t magically cook it, but Harry wanted to do it the muggle way. Something about preserving the taste. I pull two bowls out of the cupboard along with the cutlery, and walk the long trek over to the dining room. Realising last minute that I really should’ve charmed the glasses to follow me, I scowl. I’ll have to do two trips. The dining table is massive, with torches in a line down the middle. Despite the muggle electricity Harry claims is in place in the house, it refuses to move the candles. Harry complains about it to no end. I set the table, or rather the two seats opposite each other at the end closest to the entrance, and leave. It may be better than the entrance way, but it is still dusty, and no amount of charms or manual labour can remove it. I’ve tried. 

“Draco, here,” Harry’s voice calls out as I enter the kitchen again. I race over to where he is struggling to take the pot off the ‘stove’. I rush to help, and together we get it onto the counter. “Merlin that was heavy,” he grumbles. 

“Come on, then.” I open the ‘fridge’, take out the bottle of Cabernet, and charm both of them to float behind us as we walk into the dining room. My magic dishes the meal out in perfect serves as I generously splash the wine into our glasses. Harry nods his thanks and sits down opposite me, his chair squeaking on the wooden floor. 

“Let’s make a toast,” I announce, raising my wine glass.

“What for?” Harry asks, lifting his glass too. 

“To… defeating the Dark Lord.”

Harry falters for a second, taken by surprise at my suggestion. He nods all the same, clinking his glass against mine. I allow myself to smile as I take a sip, savouring the liquid slipping down my throat. Placing it down again, I scoop some of the chicken balti onto my spoon. I lock eyes with Harry across the table, and we both take the first bite of our dinner. It’s delicious. The herbs complementing the spices beautifully, and the chicken pieces juicy and tender. My eyes slide closed and I hum happily. When I open them again to take another bite, Harry is watching me. My cheeks heat, and probably tinge shade of pink. We stare at each other for a while, my throat working heavily, before I look away.

Absentmindedly, I rub at a spot on my back that’s sore. It’s a spot that I just can’t reach, but the area around it hurts more when I press on it. Leaving it alone, I return to my meal. Harry and I start talking. It’s little, inconsequential things at first. How we feel about the upcoming Quidditch game and who we think will win. How Harry’s friends are going. What’s happening in my book, and my plans for trying to solve the dust problem. But the conversation takes a turn as we finish eating. It drifts into dangerous territory. My father is the first thing to come up. 

“Where do you think he is? Right now, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I haven’t put much thought into it.” Harry nods, understanding perfectly. “I guess he could still be in the Manor, though that would be stupid even for him.”

“Why would it be stupid?” His face creases up in confusion, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. 

“Well, surely he would’ve found out that you have me by now.” A tinge of pink stains Harry’s cheeks, although I don’t know why. It’s probably just a trick of the light. There is nothing to blush over with that sentence. Unless… no. Don’t go there. 

“And if he knows I _ have you _,” he lowers his voice, “he might guess that I would invade the Manor.”

“That is my thought, yes.”

“Ok. So where would he be if not for the Manor?”

I sigh again. “I really don’t know. I don’t think he would go to any of the other properties, for much the same reasons.”

It’s Harry’s turn to sigh. “I guess I could pull some strings at the Ministry…”

“When would you have time to?” He hasn’t been spending as much time as I’d like here lately. 

“I don’t know, but I’d find some. We can’t have him out there.” His eyes shine in earnestly, like he honestly cares about my well-being.

“Thank you, Harry.” It comes out in a whisper, and his hand finds mine on the table.

“You’re welcome. Always.” My body feels alight for a second, on fire. But then it fades to tiredness. 

Stifling a yawn, I push my chair out silently. Harry follows suit — except not so quietly — and together we float the dishes back to the kitchen. I place a network of charms over them to slowly clean them properly as we sleep. It’s a trick my mother taught me, and my heart clenches. She’s still upstairs in the room next to mine. Her health is rapidly declining and I don’t know what to do. Apparently, neither does Granger. Harry is lost, but we can’t risk taking her to a hospital. It’s far too risky. I groan under my breath as I start walking through the entrance way and up the flight of stairs. Harry is trailing behind me, and stops me just outside my door. 

“It’s okay, Draco. We will fix this. We’ll fix everything.” He reaches an arm out to my shoulder, and I swallow hard. When I don’t push him away, he steps closer and wraps me into a hug. My breathing halts, startled by the embrace. We’ve only done this once before, and we were both drunk. But right now, we are sober except for the wine with dinner. It’s different. Eventually I come out of my stupor, and I close my arms around his back hesitantly. Harry exhales, seemingly in relief, when I do so, and I move to rest my head on his shoulder. My bone-wings twitch, and I feel the compelling urge to wrap them around him too. So I do. We fit perfectly together, standing in a tight embrace. Harry pulls away first, leaving me cold and dizzy. When our eyes meet the green is slightly dull and hazy, tiredness evident despite him trying to hide it. 

“Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Harry.” I echo the sentiment before turning into my room and closing the door.

**

**16th April, 1998**

I jolt awake. Sweat is forming on my forehead, and my hands are clenched into fists. I don’t know what happened, just that I’m very much _ not _ asleep. It must have only been a couple of hours since I fell asleep, my mind busy thinking about Harry and what everything means. But those things are far from my mind. The only thing I _ can _think of is the pain. The searing pain leaving a trail across my back, between my shoulder blades. It has to be related to my bone-wings. What else could it be? 

Forcing myself to stay calm, I roll onto my side and look at where I was just positioned. There’s blood. A lot of it. Unable to do anything else, I scream. To hell with being silent. Shouting seems to make it worse. More excruciating. Somehow, I’ve fallen off the bed. The ground is hard under me, and gravity is pushing more pressure onto my sore body. My eyes blink out of focus, the darkness swimming around me. I let out another scream. Footsteps thunder in the corridor, and my door slams open. 

“Draco!” It’s Harry. He sprints over to where I’m lying on the floor and bends down next to me. He’s silent for a second, watching me in absolute agony. 

His hand touches my shoulder, both to calm me down and to roll me onto my stomach. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. I don’t know what that means, but I groan in acknowledgement all the same. There’s a rustle of fabric and cold air hits my skin. He tries to pull my shirt off, but gives up and lets it rip when the fabric catches on the bones.

“Hurts,” I manage to moan out. Harry chuckles a bit, but then clearly thinks better as he stops instantly. 

“Hang on, I’ll be back.” His hand leaves my shoulder and he runs out of the room and — to what sounds like — downstairs. My back is _ pulsing _ now. I can feel my blood pumping under my skin. But there’s blood all over the bed, meaning that it’s probably pumping _ out _of me. 

On my stomach where Harry left me, I allow myself to cry. Even if he came back now he wouldn’t be able to see the tears in the dark or from the angle. I know there’s nothing to be ashamed about for crying, but I don’t want to seem weak. I’ve kept up the illusion of strength for so long. First for my father and his lord, and now Harry. The boy I think I’m falling for. I can’t deny it to myself much longer, not when all the signs are there. “Fuck, fuck, ahh!” My scream splits my own ears, piercing in the night. I don’t know how I dealt with this the first time it happened. But then, it has to be different this time. I already have a skeleton. I have no idea what this could be for.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry exclaims as he sprints back to me. There is something clinking—glass?—next to me, and then the sound of a cap unscrewing. “So much blood,” he utters, panicked. Something soft and warm presses against my skin, right where it burns the most. The fabric is wet, covered in something that stings. Whimpers fall from my mouth, tears streaming down my face. Harry’s hand rubs my shoulder, helping me through silently. The fabric is removed, cold air rushing to replace it. Magic washes over me, quelling the pain slightly. My entire body tingles with it. Harry says something under his breath, and suddenly my skin feels dry. The blood has been Vanished. 

I reach one of my hands behind me to feel what’s happening, only to be slapped away forcefully. 

“No Draco. Not this time.” Harry’s voice is rough but certain. He knows the nightmares I’ve had since this month started. Visions of what it must’ve looked like, based solely on what I felt. He’s heard the shouts as I start awake in the night. This time, he isn’t letting me know. “I don’t know what’s happening, so I can’t really help it much…” Harry sounds guilty. “The best I can do is numb it slightly and remove the blood.”

“That’s plenty, Harry…” I croak. _ It’s more than enough. _“Fucking Merlin!!” 

My throat is dry and blistering with pain, Harry’s magic not numbing the pain that I’m causing myself. I feel movement in my back, and I know instantly that it’s the bone-wings retreating back under my skin. Why are they returning?

“What’s- fuck- happening?” I manage to get out between cries.

“Shhh,” Harry says carefully. I can feel his eyes staring, burning holes into my bare back. “It seems,” he murmurs into my ear, “that they are retreating into your skin.” I was right. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Draco.” There it is again. Every time he says my name a shock runs through me. And he’s saying it quite a lot right now.

Another scream rips itself from me, and I can feel the bones rapidly withdraw into my back. Harry’s hand instantly latches on, rubbing circles into the skin most destroyed. It leaves just as quickly as he placed it there, however. I’m about to say something, when searing pain races through me. I shout a string of curses, my back contorting into odd shapes. I’m terrified. Why is my body doing this? I feel like I’m going to be sick as the bones push out again. It’s swift, torturous, and excruciating. They rush into the air, but they feel different. They’re heavier. 

Harry is silent next to me, but then his hand is back on me. Slow and steady. The pain dulls down, no longer gut-wrenching, and tears stop running at the extent they were. My lungs rush to fill themselves with air, and I have to forcibly slow them down to avoid hyperventilating. Harry moves, lying down next to me on the ground. His hand is still on my back, and it moves slightly to accommodate the changing angle. His own breathing is erratic, and he starts humming a tuneless melody to slow it. I pry my eyes open, seeing the dark wood beneath me. Turning my head, I jump a bit when I see how close we are to each other. His body heat is radiating off him, and all I want to do is move closer. But I don’t. Our eyes meet, the emerald green dull with concern and terror. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, hand roaming my bare skin and trying to chase away the goosebumps. 

“I think so,” I whisper in the space between us. 

“That’s good,” he murmurs, suddenly awkward. His eyes stay staring into mine, but his hand keeps moving up my back. It arrives at the spot between my shoulder blades, although it doesn’t stop. It slowly moves up to the base of the bones, and then touches them. I can feel it still. It feels weird. And slightly ticklish. But it doesn’t stop there. Harry brings it up quite a bit, all the while it becomes more ticklish. Almost as if he was dragging a feather over them. Wait…

“Feathers…?” I utter in question. Harry nods slowly, eyes boring into mine. “What colour?” I’d love them to be white again, but that’s not going to be the case. 

“Light brown,” he confirms my suspicion. “They’re beautiful Draco.” 

“I doubt it,” I scoff. “When I lost them they were dark brown. They looked sickly and lewd.”

“Well they don’t now. Besides, I said _ light _brown.” He sounds adamant, as if he honestly believes so. “Look.” He reaches behind him with his other hand, pulling his wand out of his pocket. Moving it through the air, he conjures a small mirror and holds it in front of me. I can barely see anything except the ceiling, and I guide his hand with my own. My face come Shinto view, pale and blotchy, and I hurriedly move it further. 

Feathers. It has been nearly two months since I had any, and I don’t even know if the dark ones floating in the air count. I’m stunned for a moment, before forcing myself to actually think about them. The bones are mostly covered, only peeking through in a couple of spots. There aren’t as many feathers as there should be — they are far from full — but the ones I have look healthy and beautiful. The light brown complements my normal skin tone in an odd way that I don’t quite understand, and my eyes look alive for the first time in days. And then of course there’s the blood. I slam the mirror away, a look of disgust flitting across my face. Harry seems to understand what it means, as his wand is back out and pointing at me in an instant. He casts a cleaning charm and Vanishes the remaining blood and skin. 

“See? Beautiful.”

I nod absentmindedly, but Harry’s smile draws all my attention back to him. “You really think so?” My question is quiet, unsure and afraid. If he says it it has to be sincere.

“Absolutely.” His smile broadens even more, and he flicks his wand to the room around us. It lights up slowly, giving our eyes time to adjust. “But we need to consult the books I bought on Sunday.”

“You can say that,” I try to joke. It comes out as more of a splutter.

Harry pats me sympathetically before laughing to himself and standing up. He reaches his hand out for me to take, and he hauls me to my feet. My head spins and I fall, but Harry catches me before I hit the ground. “I’ll carry you,” he offers. I don’t have it in me to decline as he charms the blood on the ground away and walks us into the drawing room to firecall Granger. 


	9. Part 9

**16th April, 1998 (continued)**

Granger, it seems, was expecting our call. How, I have no idea. Something about a ‘pattern’. Regardless, her face is filling the fireplace in the drawing room. The flame flickers off the walls, giving the room a cosy yet urgent feeling. 

“Tell me exactly when it started this time.” Granger cuts to the chase immediately. There is no other reason we would Floo her at this hour. 

Swallowing heavily and feeling my throat contract slightly, I answer. “Only about an hour ago, I think. It woke me up.” I sneak a glance at Harry and find him already looking my way and nodding thoughtfully. 

“Yes, woke _ me _up too,” he jokes. I scowl at him before allowing myself to smile at the glint in his eye.

We turn back to the fireplace at the same time, and I catch Granger looking temporarily disbelieving. With a roll of her eyes the expression is gone, and she is back to business. “Look guys. Could I come through? I feel like it would be _ easier _,” she pointedly explains. Harry rushes to accept and let’s her into the house, ignoring her comment. She swiftly sits down in one of the vacant arm chairs, pulling out a notepad and muggle quill from who-knows-where. A look is sent to Harry, and I follow her gaze. He hurries to turn from my view, but I see a spot of red on his cheeks. I don’t know why, but it makes me slightly dizzy. 

“Okay. Wow, can I?” Granger asks. I’m confused for a second, before I realise what she means. 

“Uh, I guess so.” She nods, seemingly understanding that I’m hesitant. Her hand reaches across to me, and I twist so my back is facing her. It tickles. My feathers move as she brushes her hand over them, inspecting the condition and colour. I feel it move away, I hear her muggle quill scratch over a page as she makes notes, and then it’s back again. My mind wanders as the action is repeated, drifting to Harry. When he did this, he was gentle. He made sure not to put me in any discomfort, and made me feel better about the poor excuse that is the feathers. It made me happy, sated in a strange way, with butterflies in my stomach. 

“Why?”

“Sorry?” The question came out of nowhere, and I worry that she has somehow read my thoughts. 

“Why have the feathers manifested?” Granger elaborates, realising that the question was random. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t put much thought to it,” I reply, silently cursing myself. Of course she can’t read my mind.

“I have.” My eyebrows furrow, and I turn to Harry. I forgot he was still in the room, as he usually moves away and does some things down stairs. But now, he is sitting very close to me on the leather sofa. So close even, that if I moved my leg over slightly, we would be touching. Trying to push away the heat rising to my face, I fix him a curious and intrigued glance. “I think you’re conversation a couple of days ago triggered the change.” 

Granger makes a noise like the sound is caught in her throat, nodding mercilessly. “I think that’s right you know.”

“I’m lost,” I confess. I haven’t had to really think about something like this in ages, not since I was forced from Hogwarts. 

Harry shifts on the leather sofa, tucking his legs under him to face me without hitting my face. I miss the warmth of his leg nearly touching mine, the feeling of being so close I could kiss him. Trying to clear my head without moving it proves to be a challenge, so I’m still thinking of him when he starts talking again. 

“If you think about it, the skeleton of your wings only appeared after you reached out for my help. After you agreed to hide here with me, and allowed me to look after your mother and you. And now you have helped substantially more. You have given us all of the information you know, even the difficult parts.”

Granger nods along with all of it and turns to face me now. “It would make sense that you are, as Harry here likes to say, ‘rising’ whenever you help us. You fell due to the dark magic around you and the wrong choices you made, so what if you are recovering because of the opposite? Because you are helping us win the war instead of causing it?”

I’m shocked. But of course that makes sense. I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier. “Okay, but one thing is bothering me…” I say. With both people telling me to continue, I explain my confusion. “I just don’t understand why asking for Harry’s help would so drastically shift my condition. When I reached out I grew a skeleton, when I told you everything I know I grew feathers? That just doesn’t seem to add up.”

Harry hums in thought and shuffles his position around. I’m acutely aware of the arm he has thrown over the back of the sofa, his hand nearly touching my shoulder. Granger meanwhile, is jotting down more notes and trying to figure out how to say something. 

“I think it might be due in part to the strength required for each step,” she says slowly. “Maybe because of how dangerous it was for you to reach out, it counted as more? There wasn’t much risk in feeding us information, aside from your own mental health. We weren’t going to place you in any dangerous situation, especially now.” She concludes her thoughts looking at Harry, a knowing glint in her eye. What she knows though, I have no idea. 

“That could make sense,” I murmur. Harry rushes to agree, shooting a glare Granger’s way as she writes more dot points down. 

“Have you thought about what I brought up last time I contacted you, Malfoy?” 

My fist presses lightly against my lips, my head tilting off to the side. “You mean…?”

“Yes. Have you thought of anyone that could fit that description?”

I forgot all about her theory. But I can’t tell her that. “Not quite,” I carefully confess. “There is too much criteria to match perfectly.” It's not exactly a lie, it’s a long list. 

Granger nods, releasing a slow breath. “I think I’ve found someone,” she whispers. 

“Who?” I ask just as quietly. Whoever it is, she isn’t happy about it.

“Harry…”

***

A couple hours later and it’s a decent time of morning. I tried to go back to sleep, but my mind was whirring too fast, trying to process everything, that I couldn’t rest. Not only had I been awoken by my back splitting open _ again _, Granger had then announced that Harry would be the perfect person. I had then had to listen to her explain what that meant for him, and watch as his face drained of colour. He is still mad about it with the sun high in the sky, pacing through the drawing room. We haven’t left yet. 

“What does it even _ mean _Draco?” He sounds like a petulant child, and I laugh softly to myself. I sober up enough to explain the situation for the hundredth time.

“It means that you will be shrunk, and guided into my old bedroom. If you can get past the wards, that is, which you somehow managed when you rescued me.”

“It was like there weren’t any wards, I wasn’t affected at all.”

“Hence why you’re the best option.”

“I hate the idea, Draco. How would I even know where to go, or what to do?”

I sigh, “I’ve already told you that I’d instruct you!”

It’s Harry’s turn to sigh now. “I know, I know you have. I’m sorry. I’m just, worried. What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing, will go wrong,” I assure him. “We both agreed that they were probably long gone by now.”

“But what if they aren’t?”

“Then I’ll be able to know.” Harry fixes me with a confused glance, and I remember that I haven’t told him yet.

“You know the crest burned into my back?” I ask him.

“Yeah…?” He replies carefully.

“It warms up whenever I’m in the same area as my father. If we layered a charm onto it that read the temperature, we could see it rising before I could even feel it. If that was the case, we would leave immediately.”

“Well that’s, useful? I think?”

I allow myself to chuckle at the kind-of-adorable expression on his face. Merlin, kind-of-adorable? What am I even thinking? “Very useful,” I agree. “If we are going to do this, it’ll be a good idea to memorise the Manor’s layout just in case. Here.” I pass him a copy of Granger’s sketch.

“How did you get this? Did you draw this?”

“No,” I laugh. “Granger drew it.”

“Makes sense.” Harry pauses for a second, thoughtful. 

The room drifts into silence, neither comfortable or awkward. We’ve never really let this happen, and I don’t know how to deal with it. Should I say something? Or would he read into it? Pinching the bridge of my nose, I make an effort to force my thoughts away, to something else. It’s a futile attempt, as it only makes me think about _ why _I don’t want to think about it. What does draw my attention though, is a dip in the sofa next to me. I look up and see Harry sitting there, so close to me I can see streaks of deeper green through his eyes. I’m captivated, before remembering where we are and what we are doing. I can’t allow something as small as my emotions get in the way of helping stop my father and the Dark Lord. But he is so close, and he smells like green apples. 

His hands reach across the small distance for me, and he gently grabs my hand. My pulse is hammering in my neck, my heart pounding. What is he doing? Why is he doing it?

“Har-”

“Shh,” he whispers. His tongue reaches out to wet his lips, and my mouth parts slightly. Is he going to kiss me? His other hand travels up to my face, cupping my cheek. The skin is warm and calloused on my skin, a sure reminder of exactly how real he is. And exactly _ who _he is. I wrench myself away from his grip, immediately missing the lack of his warmth on me. 

“We can’t…” Standing up, I turn my back and flee the drawing room.

***

**17th April, 1998**

I can’t stop thinking about him. Harry is filling my every thought. Even sleeping couldn’t remove him from my mind. My dreams were filled with him. With his green eyes blown wide and black. With his hands on me, warm and sure. With my reaction, running from him when all I wanted was to smash my lips to his. But I couldn’t. That would’ve been the wrong choice. We can’t allow our emotions or desires to rule us while trying to win a war. I don’t even understand my attraction to him, or what it is I want from him. But I _ am _sure that it’s not a hookup, which is what it looked like he wanted. I guess that’s why I ran. I couldn’t bear to wake up next to him and go back to what we were before. So instead I gave myself nothing. Because what else could he want? Not me, that’s for sure. 

My bed is an anchor, solid yet soft below me. With my thoughts racing and my anger rising, I need something to calm me down. I sit bolt upright and cross my room to the desk. The map of my thoughts is still sitting there, and I can't help but think of how much it’s changed in barely less than two weeks. For a start, it reads ‘Potter’ and not ‘Harry’. I knew so much less about everything just twelve days ago. Ripping off a new sheet of parchment, I grab a quill and some ink and start on a new one. Once again I start by scrawling my name in the centre and drawing a circle around it. From there, I draw four lines off it. The top one says ‘Malfoy Manor’, the right one reads ‘Fallen/Rising Angel’, the left one reads ‘Mother’, and the bottom one says ‘Harry’. I circle all of them and start jotting down notes on the things I know and how I feel.

_ Malfoy Manor_

  * _Can I get through the wards?_
  * Can someone shrink & go through the vents into my bedroom? - Harry?
  * Is it vacated?
  * How could Harry get in through the wards?

_ Fallen/Rising Angel _

  * _Skeleton and scarce, light brown feathers_
  * Excruciating pain every progression
  * Progression caused by helping Harry and with the war 

_Mother_

  * _Gravely ill_
  * Skin going pale, grey hair
  * Is it rapid aging? - Her skin is not purple - Granger’s information
  * Thick blood - Bleeding time 52 seconds, not 9 minutes - Granger’s information
  * Cursed something blocked airways - Harry Vanished - From my father?

When I get to ‘Harry’, I pause. What if he finds this? What if he _ reads _it and figures out exactly what I’m feeling about him? I don’t know if I could be him to know. But I need to write something down… Deciding to place the parchment under various disillusionment charms, I note down things under his name.

_ Harry _

  * _I’m definitely attracted to him_
  * He tried to kiss me?! - Probably just for a hookup
  * We are now on a first name basis?
  * He makes us be fake boyfriends in public - To ‘stand out less’
  * How can I feel this way in such a short time? - What about our different beliefs? 

I feel slightly better after writing my thoughts out. It makes everything seem less daunting, and more stupid than anything. I’m in the middle of a war, and all I’m thinking about is my feelings! Starting out of my trance for seemingly no reason, I realise that I should add another branch. I draw a wonky line between ‘Malfoy Manor’ and ‘Fallen/Rising Angel’. I write ‘Granger’ and trace a circle around it. With all of the help she has given me, it’s only right that she receives a section too. 

_ Granger _

  * _She sends knowing glances to Harry? - Usually after something he says about me?_
  * She is helping Mother and I - Why?
  * She writes lots of notes
  * What exactly is she doing beside helping us? - What’s her task in the war?

Humming to myself, I think over everything I’ve written again. Satisfied, I begin putting away my quill and ink. Then, with a gentle swoop of my wand, the page is transfigured into one of my drawings. I then mask it under a very strong invisibility charm. There is no way Harry will find it without my input, and he will never get that.

“Draco?!” Its Harry, calling me from downstairs. “Do you want to leave the house for a while? I’m going to The Burrow.”

Just where I want to go. Rolling my eyes I call back, “Is that really the best idea?”

“You will be under your Glamours, and we will Apparate right there. No one will see you.” 

“That’s not what I me- Never mind. I guess so,” I shout back. Harry isn’t stupid. Surely he knows that I’m worried about the Weasleys’ reactions. But then again, he doesn’t know I like him. And if I didn't like him, I wouldn’t care what they think, I’d just ignore them. Which then makes sense that I’d be concerned about being in a dangerous situation. Merlin, everything regarding Harry and I is so confusing and complicated. 

Crossing my room, I scan my eyes over it quickly, making sure that there is nothing I wouldn’t want found in plain sight. Pleased with my ability to hide things, I allow myself to smile as I shut the door behind me. 

“Where are you?” I call out to Harry. 

“Kitchen!” 

I turn to go down the stairs, but the door next to mine catches my attention. It is slightly ajar. My mother’s door is open. Dread and terror alike fill me. She is gravely ill, there’s no way she could open it. I haven’t been in since breakfast, and Harry normally tells me when he goes in. And we _ always _shut it properly. Meaning someone else has opened it. 

  
  



	10. Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I hope you have a great rest of the year and enjoy today (even if you don’t celebrate it, have a nice day). Xx

**17th April, 1998 (continued)**

Someone is in Grimmauld Place. Someone has gotten past the wards, the locks, the ancient magic. Someone has opened Mother’s door. But who is that someone? Why would they? They wouldn’t achieve anything at all. Getting a grip on the terror coursing through me, I continue on my path of going downstairs. If they are still there, they will be expecting me to join Harry. If I walked in now, I might not leave. 

“Hey Harry?!” I call to him.

“Yes?” He shouts back, his voice sounding strange through the amount of walls.

“What do I wear?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” I can hear him laughing from the kitchen. My neck flushes as I realise how stupid that sounds out loud. 

“Well, what are we doing at the Burrow?”

“I think it’s just a casual lunch, Draco.”

“Ok!” I call in response. Deciding that the black trousers and dark blue shirt I have on are fine, I continue walking down the stairs.

Grimacing at the dust and chipped paint that is still the staircase, I make it a point to redo them next. As I reach the kitchen, I take in the mess that’s covering the countertop. Harry is covered in flour, what looks like sugar, and somehow milk. There are various other ingredients strewn about, some spilled everywhere. 

“What _ have _ you been doing?” I ask, trying to hide a laugh. 

“Baking, obviously.”

“Are you baking yourself, or the kitchen?”

“Very funny Draco,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s the first time I’ve seen Fred and George since their birthday two weeks ago, so I thought I would bring them something.”

“How many people will be there?” I ask, suddenly nervous that there will be dozens of people hating me there. 

“Just Ron and his siblings, his parents, and us.”

“Okay,” I breathe in relief. But my relief stops cold, because I remember why I’m down here.

“Hey Harry…” I murmur, not wanting to make a lot of noise.

“Yeah?” He asks, turning to me fully. When he sees my expression, concern takes over his features. “Is something wrong?”

I shush him immediately, nodding my head. “Mother’s door is ajar…”

“What do you mean? It’s open?!” He whispers fervently. I nod my quickly, desperate for him to react. “Okay, just let me clean up the kitchen, and then we can go.” 

My heart clenches painfully, my blood rushing from my face. What does he mean by that? Unless… But no, Harry isn’t that smart. But then again… he is winning a war right now… My suspicions are confirmed when he draws his wand and casts various charms over both of us and the kitchen. He then pulls a silvery cloak out of his pocket and shrugs it on. 

“Charms to silence our footsteps and breathing, and to clean the kitchen noisily. Come on,” he jerks his head to the stairs, turns away, and vanishes from sight. His invisibility cloak. Allowing myself to smile to his turned back, I follow him up the staircase slowly. I can somehow sense his presence in front of me, even through the spells. There must’ve been a spell he cast so we could hear each other up no one else could. He halts at the top of the stairs, which I find out by running into him. His back is solid and warm against my front, and I swiftly step away. I can’t be dealing with my attraction to him now. Not while we are trying to save my mother. 

Through where I know Harry is standing, I can see the landing and all of the doors leading off of it. Mine is fully closed, of course, as is every other one on the floor. Everyone except Mother’s, which is still open ever so slightly. I sense him moving very slowly towards the door, so I draw my wand and do the same. From around one of the corners, Harry comes to a slow stop. This time I don’t run into him. My shoulder is cool where it’s pressed against the wall, and I scan my eyes over everything in sight. Nothing catches my attention at all. There is not a single thing in the area that seems off, everything just as it usually is. I reach my hand out to touch Harry in front of me, worried that this might be a trap. Everything seems too neat, too organised. It has to be professional. 

My hand brushes against what I assume has to be the cloak, and I grab some of it and pull it away slightly. Harry’s face comes into view, and he is facing away from me, towards the door. There is a pensive look on his face, one that instantly drops away when cold air hits his skin. He freezes in place, before rapidly turning to me silently. Dangerously. Throwing my hands up instantly, I force myself to smile at the deadly warrior before me. Harry truly is made for this war, like it’s his destiny. I shudder at the gruesome thought, and allow myself to relax when he returns the smile hesitantly. 

“What is it, Draco?” He whispers, his mouth moving nearly silently. 

“What if it’s a trap?” I murmur back, gesturing to the flawless crime scene. “It’s too perfect, don’t you think?”

Harry looks around for a second, before nodding slowly. “Could be,” he agrees. “You stay here, I’ll go.”

Opening my mouth to protest, Harry shakes his head. “Draco, no. If it’s a trap, it’s me they want. You are safest here. Besides, I have training.”

“So do I,” I coolly reply. “Besides, they might want to draw you away from me to take _ me. _They could be sent by my father.”

“Looks like we’ve hit a dead end then,” Harry says. “Fine.” He waves his wand over me again, casting a strong Disillusionment charm. 

Harry smiles at me, for less than half a second, before throwing the cloak back over his head. I feel him moving away instantly, inching closer to the door. Creeping along after him, I stop behind where I know him to be. I strain my ears for any sound of movement, but hear nothing. The charms he cast are staying strong. I watch intently as the door very slowly drifts open, as if by a wind. Except there is no wind, Harry is the one pushing it silently. The door stops it’s motion for a while, waiting so as not to draw attention. And then it’s opening again, and I can suddenly see further into the room than the opposite wall. My pulse is thumping in my ears, becoming all I can hear and think about. A rush of air tells me that Harry has moved forward slightly, so I stop thinking entirely in order to enter after him. 

The room looks much the same as normal. It needs a bit of redecorating, like the rest of the house, but it looks perfectly fine. Except, of course, for the empty bed and open window. My eyes widen, my heart clenching painfully. Someone has abducted Mother. Why? Why would someone do something like that? Fighting the urge to fall to my knees, I try to think critically. The first answer that comes to my mind is my father and his lord, but this seems too random. Surely they’d go after me directly? Not risk everything by trying to draw me out? But then again, they did always have an eye for the dramatic. 

Harry materialises in front of me, a worried and apologetic expression shadowing his features. His arms reach out for me and he holds my shoulders. He is at arms reach from me, but his eyes are so green it hurts to look at them. Or maybe it’s just because I don’t have the nerve to right now. 

“I am so sorry Draco…” he whispers. His thumbs start rubbing up and down, up and down, across my shirt-covered skin. I feel like the world is drifting away from me. Still in sight yet out of reach. My pathetic excuse of a father and his lord have destroyed my life. This is the last straw. 

“We go to the Manor. Today.” 

***

“Are you guys sure this will work?” Harry asks cautiously. Granger—_ Hermione _as she insists—has been helping me ever since we found the empty room this morning. Harry ended up going to the Burrow for an hour while Hermione arrived at Grimmauld, and he told everyone there the situation. At least, as much of the situation that was possible to tell. Which ended up going something like ‘something has come up at Grimmauld, and I can’t stay long’. Apparently, everyone there knew something bigger was up, but they didn’t push it and let Harry come back as soon as possible.

“Positive,” Hermione assures him, pushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “The spell I’m going to cast on both of you will allow Draco to hear what you hear. He will still hear what’s happening around him, if faintly, but your’s won’t be compromised.

I nod along, having partially come up with the spell when at the Manor. I cast it on the House Elves sometimes when I was desperate for information, and they had no idea what was happening to them. Of course, it wasn’t anywhere near as good as this version. “It will work perfectly, as long as you can get through the wards.”

“What if I can’t?” Harry asks. “We haven’t exactly tried.”

“Well no. But you managed to when you rescued Draco, so it should be no different,” Hermione reasons.

“I’m still not used to you guys using first names…” he murmurs, so quietly I wonder if I imagined it. “Fingers crossed then.”

That’s clearly a Muggle saying, as Hermione nods along and physically places her middle finger over her index. 

After a little longer of checking over plans and reassuring Harry, we all Apparate to the base of the long driveway. It’s really weird seeing the Manor from this perspective. As someone intent on bringing it down, instead of as a childhood home. But I can no longer think of it as that. Too much has happened here, and there is no going backwards. The driveway under our feet was once gravel neatly laid down. Now though, it’s an absolute mess. The small stones are kicked off the sides of the wide road, and there are patches where dirt pokes through. Hedges still line the outskirts, but there are none of the white peacocks that usually strut on the top. 

As our little party arrives to the bend where the wrought-iron gates come into view, we come to a halt and duck behind a group of trees. 

“Remember, the plan is for Harry to Apparate beyond the gates from here, where he will then shrink himself. Skipping the gate will prevent my father knowing of his entrance. If it doesn’t work, I try to get him. If that backfires, I activate the Portkey around my neck which will takes us back to Grimmauld.” Everyone nods as I quickly rehash the plan. It’s not the best one ever, as it was mostly fueled by anger and a lot of it is going to work by chance and luck. But it’s a plan all the same, and we get ready to initiate.

“Harry?” I ask as I turn to look at him for might be one of the last times. His hands are in balls by his sides, his face set. His mouth is pressed into a grim line of concentration, and I want to change that expression for even just a second. Taking a step closer to him, I lean in and whisper, “Thank you. For everything.” I turn my head and see that Hermione has completely turned away, giving us some privacy. On a whim, I wrap my arms around Harry and squeeze. It’s our third hug. I allow myself to rest my head next to his as his wrists lock behind my neck. 

“Your welcome,” he whispers back. We stay in the hug for a little too long, but neither of us care. He is the first to step away though, and I immediately miss his body against mine. Pulling myself together, I address him properly.

“Good luck,” I say, praying that my voice doesn’t give away how scared I am for his safety. It trembles slightly, but beyond that it’s fine. 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione exclaims as she turns back around. She rushes to give him a hug, her arms wound tightly around his neck. “Please be careful.” Her face buries itself in his neck, and he kisses her temple. When she pulls away, she cups his cheeks for a second before stepping back further. “If Ron knew we were doing this he’d kill me…” she anxiously laughs. “It’s a good thing he’s so preoccupied in Rivington Wo-” Harry slams his hand onto her mouth, preventing her from speaking.

“‘Mione!” He snaps. “I can’t _ believe _ you would blurt out his location _ here _.”

I watch as she pales, blood running from her face. “Right, of course.” She rushes to draw her wand and cast some bubbles around the three of us. They glow in strong colours before she drops her wand arm, and they fade to nothing. “Rivington Wood is a very secure place, Harry. There is no way saying it out loud could put him in danger.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I press. “Harry, you need to go.”

“Right.” His eyes scan over Hermione and then me, taking his time memorising us before turning away. I wring my hands when he vanishes from view with a loud crack. Thank Merlin for the charms Hermione put up. 

“Do you think he’s through?” She asks me. 

“I can’t hear anything from my end, meaning he’s not activated the spell yet. So, I can’t be sure.”

She takes that as an answer for right now, and begins pulling things out of her bag. A Muggle quill is thrown out, followed by weird parchment book _ things _and what looks to be a portable table top that sits on your legs. Hermione sees me watching and smiles. As she sits down behind the tree, and invite some to join her. 

“What on earth are they?” I inquire when I see her click the end of the Muggle quill and press it to the parchment. 

“This is called a pen,” she holds up the odd quill. It’s clear that she is latching on to a distraction from Harry, and I gladly allow it. “It acts as a quill, but is much more efficient. You don’t have to constantly dip it to get more ink, as it’s inside already. All you have to do is press on the end and you are good to write.” She demonstrates by clicking it again and writing her name on the weird parchment. “This is called a spiral notebook. It’s essentially thinner parchment called paper, and instead of being bound in a leather cover there are holes on the edge. A spiral is thread through the holes and holds the pages together.” Hermione rips one of the pages off easily and passes to me. It’s nearly transparent and is so light in my hand. 

“Wow…” I murmur. I ask her for the pen so I can try it out, but a buzzing in my ear snaps me to attention.

“Are you okay?!” I rush to ask Harry, before remembering that _ he _ can’t hear _ me _. There is a series of static in my ear, which I think is words. I grab my wand and sharpen the sound so I can hear Harry talking to me.

“-nything suspicious within the gates. Everything is good on my side and I will go ahead to Phase 2.” Harry’s voice is controlled, all business. He’s clearly done something like this before, and I can’t help but think he’d make a great Auror. Unless, of course, he is sick of battling dark wizards. I completely understand the sentiment, even though I’ve never done anything of the sort. I don’t want to choose a career in anything similar to this war. 

“Phase 2 is complete,” he announces. “I have shrunk myself to the size of a blade of grass, and will now progress into the house and to Phase 3.” 

I relay the information to Hermione, who scribes it down in neat little notes. As well as the listening charm that she created specifically for this purpose, she also tweaked a form Legillimency so that I can feed memories to Harry in order to help him. Once he says he’s completed Phase 3–which is entering through the first side door on the house’s right—he will ask me for instructions. From there, I have to either find a memory of myself going along the route, or quickly draw a sketch of the layout and send it to him mentally. Hermione is truly brilliantly clever, and it’s a wonder I haven’t seen more of her during this living-with-Harry situation. She appears to be the brain of the Golden Trio, as the only person who can actually _ think _ let alone strategise. I’m not sure what Weasley does, but Harry is clearly the field guy. 

“Are you worried?” I ask Hermione as I sit back down next to her. 

“How could I not be? I’ve known him for seven years and I’ve just sent him into one of the most dangerous buildings in England!” ‘Worried’ seems to be an understatement, but I don’t know how to comfort her without crossing a line. This odd understanding that’s developed between us is very fragile, so I don’t say anything for fear of breaking it. Not only would this mission become impossible, but Harry would never forgive me. If I’m going to be his friend—or even something more—I need to make an effort. Because I can feel Harry and I drawing each other in. It’s like a magnet, pulling me towards the man who saved me from my father and a lifetime of ill decisions and regrets.

“What about you?” Hermione rebounds my earlier question, drawing me from my thoughts.

It takes a while to figure out how to answer the simple question without giving away my true feelings. I stopped denying them to myself what seems like ages ago, but in reality it’s only been a day. Not that that’s the length of time I’ve been falling for him for, of course. That’s just when I stopped lying to myself about it. These feelings have been building up for nearly a month, and even before that I’ve always been weirdly obsessed with him. 

“I don’t know what will happen if Harry isn’t the only one in there. I am concerned for his safety in that regard.” I decide that’s a neutral way to put it. A way that disguises my emotion by feigning nonchalance. I can see on her face that that doesn’t work. 

“I’m not taking that shit, Draco,” she swears. “I know how you feel about him.”

The colour drains from my face, my heart skipping a beat. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say as I wipe my hands on my legs.

“I’m calling BS there.” Hermione sweeps her eyes over my face, as if she can read my every thought. “You know exactly what I mean.”

My answer is cut off by Harry’s voice in my ear. It’s amazing how quickly that cheered me up, and I once again jump to my feet. “Phase 3 is complete, awaiting instructions.” His voice is just as steady and emotionless as earlier, and it chills my blood to be seeing—or hearing—this side of him. Wordlessly, I send him a picture of how to get into the vents. It’s quite a task when you’re the size of a blade of grass, but it’s detailed enough in my memory that it should be enough. 

“I’ve just given him the picture,” I tell Hermione, who swiftly writes it down. 

“Was it a video or a picture?” She asks. I have absolutely no idea, so I just shrug in a tell-you-gesture. 

“I am in the vent. Awaiting directions.” There is a pause before Harry adds, “Preferably in sketch format.” 

I relay that to Hermione who rips out a page and hands it to me. It’s a copy of the layout she drew five days ago, and I send Harry a picture of it. From his end, there is a bang and swearing, before silence. He clearly hit himself on something, and I bite back a laugh.

“What’s a video?” I ask as I turn back to her.

“It’s another Muggle invention. Their photos don’t move, they’re just a moment in time where everything is frozen. Videos are more like our photos. They are essentially long photos. They have to be taken on certain devices, and can go for as long as the taker likes.” Her explanation doesn’t make much sense, but I think I get the gist of it.

“I sent him a video then, I think.”

“Okay,” she replies as she jots that down as a footnote. “Also, Draco?”

“Mhmm.”

“I fully accept your relationship with Harry.” 

My cheeks heat instantaneously. “What relationship?”

Hermione rolls her dark eyes. “I know you two are dating. I’m fine with it and I want to be closer with you to show Harry that.”

“We aren’t dating…?” I feel dizzy, like my world is spinning.

“If you aren’t dating, then you are both oblivious idiots who are not-so-secretly pining over each other.”

“I don’t like him like that,” I deny.

“Yes you do,” she says on a sigh.

“Well, he doesn’t like _ me _like that.”

“You really don’t pay any attention, do you?”

“I do! I am very observant.”

“But not to the way he feels about you.”

I groan, my hand moving to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we talk about this another time?”

“I guess so. But I’m telling you now, Draco. He likes you too, and you’d be foolish not to make the first move.”

“Draco,” comes Harry’s voice. This time it isn’t steady and devoid of emotion. This time, fear fills the trembling word. “I can see them. Lucius and Voldemort are both in the dining room having a feast with about thirty guests.”


	11. Part 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in updates... I was overwhelmed with procrastination and writers’ block, but I’m over most of it. Updates should be regular again after this! Thanks for sticking with me Xx

**17th April, 1998 (continued)**

“What on earth do you mean by that?!” I scream before remembering once again that Harry can’t hear me. But Hermione can.

“What? Christ, what’s happened Draco?” She rushes from where she’s sitting under the tree, her notepad and pen forgotten. There’s a wild look in her eyes, like she’s going to go literally mad if I don’t tell her.

Swallowing drily I manage to whisper, “They’re in there, Hermione. They are actually in there, with dozens of guests.”

“Dozens…” Her voice is filled with fear. “Anyone recognisable?”

“Not to Harry,” I say. “Hold on, he’s speaking.”

“They are in the living room too, Draco. Another 30 at least.” Harry’s words cut off for a second, as he presumably looks around from the vent. “I don’t know any faces, but names could be another story.”

I relay that to Hermione, and she hurriedly grabs at the notepad and writes it down, still standing. “Should he progress, or do we want to utilise him here?” I ask, thinking that she will have a clearer head than me. But why should she? She’s his best friend, and I’m… what _ am _ I to him?

“Progress as usual, I think. Now we know it’s possible, he can always go back in,” she reasons. Nodding at the logic there, I ponder about how we’re going to instruct Harry. I share the concern aloud, before it hits me like a Bludger. Quickly stealing Hermione’s paper and pulling a quill from my pocket, I scribble the message. Squeezing my eyes shut and praying that this works, I telepathically send him mh memory of writing the words. 

“Instructions received, continuing ahead as planned.” Harry’s voice instantly soothes me, and my hammering heart slows a little. He understood. 

“He got the message,” I say out loud, happiness clear in my tone.

“Brilliant,” Hermione says on a sigh of relief. She carefully makes her way back to the tree, sliding down the bark and to the ground. Tapping the grass next to her, she beckons me to follow. I do as she says and make myself comfortable. I look at her for a second, wondering about the Golden Trio’s relationship. Harry is in the very centre of this war, the only person who can ultimately defeat the Dark Lord. Weasley and Hermione are off to the side, heroes only because they befriended him when they were eleven years old. They must be constantly worried about his well-being, as well as being concerned for their own. Because they are targets too. Get to either of them, get to Harry. And now I’m in the picture, not that I ever _ wasn’t. _It’s just that now it’s the Dark side trying to get to me. And it’s also Harry keeping me safe. Another blow against both him and I in their minds. Another reason to take him down. It makes me all the more determined to not let any harm come to him. 

“Draco?” Something is clutching my shoulder and shaking me, and my head snaps up. As my vision clears I see that it’s Hermione, her face slightly panicked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I stumble. “Just thinking.”

“Whatever about? You looked murderous.”

“That’s… not important,” I reply. She does _ not _need to know how deep my feelings are, regardless of the fact that she already knows that they exist. 

“Harry, yeah?”

“Fucking Merlin!” I retort. She makes me want to pull my hair out sometimes at how observant she is. “How on earth could you know that?”

She ignores my cursing, but fixes me with an odd look. “I didn’t, not really. I _ do _know however, that nothing between you two is ever simple.”

“And what is that meant to mean?”

“That for you both, it’s always all or nothing. And you are definitely not feeling nothing.”

“But Harry is…” I mutter beneath my breath. I instantly regret it as her eyes light up. That only happens when she is about to argue her point, and win. I refuse to give her the satisfaction, no matter that I kind of want her to win this one. 

“That is where you’re wrong, Draco. And you know that, because I told you so ten minutes ago.” One of her hands threads through her hair, tugging at it in frustration. “Why do you never listen?”

“I do! I take your advice more than I probably should,” I confess. 

“Not when it comes to Harry!” She sounds exasperated, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

“Because it simply can’t be true,” I state, staring into her eyes so she sees my sincerity. “Nothing will ever happen, because it can’t. We are on other sides of this war.”

“You _ used to be _,” she argues. “Not any more.”

“But no one else will know that. I will also be seen as the boy from the other side.”

“But you are not. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise Draco.” She pauses, allowing a fond expression to cross her features. “Besides, Harry’s never cared what others think about his choices.” With that, she sits back down and starts writing again. Sighing, I sit down too and wait for anything else Harry has to say.

***

A couple of very long hours later, and Harry is Apparating back out of the wards and into the cover of the trees. I see him first and leap to my feet. My movement announces his arrival to Hermione, who jumps up as well. We both rush at the man who just infiltrated the Dark Lord and my father’s lair, all but clinging to him. Hermione gets the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, but I stop myself complaining because that means I can rest my arms on the slimmest part of his waist. His skin is hot beneath his shirt, and I desperately want my hands on his bare skin. But I don’t allow myself the temptation, and carefully step back. Hermione lets go a second later, a blush creeping up her face. 

“Sorry, I just didn’t know if I’d see you again,” she whispers into his neck. 

“Me either,” he confesses. His eyes flicker to me, an unreadable emotion carefully contained inside. My heart clenches, my palms growing sweaty. Harry looks like a god, even with his ruffled hair and his bloodied face. Bloodied face? I scan my eyes over him, trying to find where the red smudge has come from. Fixing them in a shallow cut on his cheek, I walk forward so I’m closer to him again. I reach my hand up and tentatively run my fingers over the cut. Harry visibly winces, his green eyes clouding over in what must be pain, and I hurriedly withdraw it. Harry’s face grows pink, and with his eyes still glossy he looks almost flustered. Ignoring the heat that is quick long pooling in my stomach, I drop my hand off his warm skin and step back again. I force my hands behind my back, grasping them firmly to stop them trying to reach for him again. 

Hermione behind me tuts in annoyance, and I think I know why. I hear movement from where she is standing, and then she comes into view behind Harry. Her bushy hair sticks out from her head, obscured by Harry’s own. She moves forward so that she’s extremely close to him, and a trill of jealousy coils in my gut. She’s allowed to be so open with her affections, but if I make mine know he’ll surely reject them. I can’t allow myself to hope otherwise. Hermione turns his head and whispers something into Harry’s ear. His face instantly heats more than I previously thought possible, and he helplessly shakes his head. Hermione isn’t taking no for an answer, and spins him around to face her. She tries to murmur again, and again there’s a shake of a head. I stare at them, trying to figure out what they’re saying. But Hermione is clever, and has covered her mouth so I can’t lip read. This time when Harry moves, it’s a brief shrug of his shoulders. Hermione looks exasperated, but she drops it all the same. 

“Tell us about what you heard,” she suggests as she takes out her notebook again and steps back around. 

“How did you know I heard something else?” Harry demands with a soft chuckle. 

“Yes, news of dozens of people inside the Manor is bad, but not bad enough to put that weight on your shoulders or that look in your eyes.” Hermione shakes her head, annoyed that she still needs to explain in herself in a situation like this. 

Stories race through my mind of things my father used to tell me about the Manor as a child. At first, they seem irrelevant. Tales of the House Elves and the wards that keep evil people out. But then a particular one shows up, and I sharpen the memory as much as possible. 

It’s night, and eight year old me is sitting on the leather sofa next to my father. Mother is out shopping for presents, as it’s nearly Christmas, leaving us alone in the house. He tells me about special spells that can eavesdrop on specified areas, ones that can capture the scene like a memory in a pensive or a muggle camera. He said that those spells would be incriminating evidence if anyone ever tried to hurt us. Now though, the memory of the conversation is startling and the meaning is very, very obvious. 

“No!” I call out, all the authority I can muster put into my voice. It’s a command, not to be argued with. Harry instantly falls silent, Hermione’s pen slowing down as she finishes the note.

“What?” Harry asks, cutting straight to the point and turning curious eyes on me. 

“I remembered something. We need to leave,” I say, conviction strong in my tone. 

“Ok.” Hermione waves her wand and gathers all of her things, grabbing ahold of Harry and me. Before Harry can get a word out, she has Apparated us back to Grimmauld Place. 

The sun is slanting through half-closed blinds, coating the drawing room in an orange glow. It feels almost eerie. Threatening in its accuracy to how we are all feeling.

“What the fuck happened there?!” Harry demanded, throwing his hands up but not stepping further away from Hermione and I .

I reach a hand out to him, placing it carefully on his shoulder. He visibly shudders, and I withdraw the hand. Halfway back to my side though, I’m flooded with confidence, and put it back. “My father told me something when I was about eight,” I begin. “Stories of the Manor and everything in it. About how safe we were there, as no one could touch us.” I pause, looking Harry dead in the eyes. “He spoke of special wards, detection spells. One of those spells is an eavesdropping spell.” I wait for the meaning to sink in, and watch as Harry’s face drains. “It is untraceable, and you would never know if it was activated.”

“You’re saying…” Hermione starts, “that someone could have been listening to us the whole time we were there.” It isn’t a question. She knows she’s right. I nod. 

All the information we collected and discussed, just for someone else to hear it. They know what we know. And then the realisation fully hits me. _ Shit. _

“We need to move. Now!” I nearly scream. Harry summons everything we just brought with us and grabs me. Hermione throws a hand over mine and I Apparate us away. We jump four times. The first three are just to get far enough away, but the last one is vital. I’m taking us to Rivington Woods. 

***

“Sorry,” I gasp out as I collapse to the ground. Leaves crunch beneath me and a stick digs into my back, but I’m too exhausted to move. I feel a shift in the air next to me, and watch as Harry lays down too. My eyes roam over him, double and then triple checking that he isn’t splinched. Then I turn around and look for Hermione. She is already walking around and setting up wards. She’s had a lot of practise.

“Let me explain,” I manage to say in a raspy whisper. Harry nods and reaches a hand to me as I turn back to face him. “If they heard everything,” I begin, “they would’ve heard Grimmauld be mentioned. That’s also where they took Mother from.” My heart clenches at the mention of my missing mother. We never found her at the Manor, and I can only hope she’s okay. “They know what we know, and can use it against us. They heard Rivington Woods mentioned, but I’m not sure Weasley is _ actually _here, is he?”

Harry shakes his head. “It was part of a plot Hermione had. He’s actually in the Forest of Dean.” 

I exhale in relief. “Well, they now also know for a fact that I am with you.” I feel my cheeks hurt. “Not- not _ with _ you, per se, just _ with _you-”

“Draco.” Harry’s thumb rubs comfortingly over my hand. “I know what you mean,” he says. His skin is tinged slightly pink. 

“When you guys have stopped talking, we still have more notes to write,” Hermione calls from somewhere behind me. 

I rush to stand up and nearly fall over again as my vision spots. I throw a hand out to find something to hold onto, and it lands on something firm and warm. Once I have my balance back, I open my eyes and see my hand splayed across Harry’s chest. His head is cocked to the side, a smirk across his lips. I pull away instantly, blushing further. Notes. Right. Something to focus on that _ isn’t _how strongly I’m being pulled towards Harry. Harry goes stiff, his posture shifting so that he’s standing straight. The only thing that gives away his dread is the caved-in shoulders, scrunching inward to protect his chest. 

Harry’s mouth moves almost silently as he whispers something. I have no hope of understanding the barely-there whisper, and apparently neither does Hermione. 

“Harry, you’ll need to speak up.” Hermione taps her pen impatiently against her notepad. 

“Two weeks…” Harry murmurs, slightly louder. “Two weeks.” Again, firmer. 

“Two weeks… until what?” Hermione asks, although the lack of shine in Harry’s eyes is enough for me to realise exactly what he is saying. 

“Oh no.” Gasping, I sink to my knees on the cold, hard dirt. That’s not nearly enough time to prepare. My world is spinning around me, threatening to collapse in. Not only is my father getting closer to finding me, and no doubt torturing me to death, but also… this.

“Draco?” Harry whispers into my ear, afraid I’ll break. I think I might. 

I shake my head and an arm wraps around my neck and waist. The skin is warm and solid, and soon I’m engulfed with comfort. Harry always knows what to do to make me feel better. 

Relaxing into the touch, I manage to calm myself down and stand up again. Harry grins at me and I can’t bring myself to move his arms away from my skin. 

“Can someone please tell me what just happened?” Hermione asks, clearly not keeping up with the realisation still fresh in my mind, regardless of Harry’s comforting presence. 

“Two weeks until my father and his _ lord _make a move.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open, her hand stilling halfway through a word. “What?!”

Harry nods solemnly, squeezes me, and then walks over to her. Air meets the warmth Harry’s skin left on me and goosebumps rise on my neck. 

“Technically, it’s two weeks tomorrow. May second.” 

“Did you hear any of the plan?” Hermione’s voice is called and disattached, back in work mode.

“No.” Harry shakes his head in annoyance. “I only know that it’s in the evening, in the Department of Mysteries.” Of course, the Unspeakables. It seems like months since I learnt of that idea. I guess no one wanted to change the goal, even knowing that I know it.

“So they’re going ahead with it then,” I say. “This is the plan they were trying to involve me in before I left.” Hermione nods at my little bit of context and jots it down.

Harry moves back to my side, so close our arms are nearly touching. “We need to inform the others,” he declares. “The second is _ very _early May. We were preparing for about the tenth, so plans will need to be sped along.”

“You already have things organised?” I shouldn’t be surprised, not really. It is a war after all. It would be stupid not to be ready, especially when was able to give them some information. Still, I would’ve liked to have been aware. 

“Sorry for not telling you Draco, it’s nothing personal.” Harry smiles a small smile at me, but I feel distant and unsure.

_ Nothing personal. _This whole time, I have been growing steadily closer to Harry. Developing feelings I’ve never felt before, and here he goes saying it’s ‘nothing personal’. I take a step away and nod rapidly. 

“Of course. Nothing personal, you did what you had to to prepare.”

“Draco?” Harry asks, hearing the coolness I’ve forced into my voice. “Are you alright?”

“Quite alright.” Turning around, I take a step away into the forest. 

A hand on my wrist forces me to a halt. It’s too small to be Harry’s, meaning it’s Hermione who is currently preventing me from disappearing. Determined as always, I don’t turn to face her when she speaks. 

“Draco, he doesn’t mean it like that.” Her voice is calm, reassuring. Exactly what I need but not what I want to hear. I would rather sink into the feeling of loneliness, at least that’s comforting. 

“You _ know _he doesn’t mean it like that.”

“Of course I don’t!” I snap as I whirl around. That seems to have got her attention. “I don’t know anything! Because he never _ fucking _ talks to me about anything irrelevant to the war or my ‘ _ condition _’,” I argue. And it’s true, I tell myself. The fact that we sit a bit too close to each other for friends, or that we use the disguise of being boyfriends whenever we’re out in public, aren’t important things. They can’t be, because Harry clearly doesn’t feel the way I do. 

“Of course he does…” Hermione murmurs. 

“Wait what?” I double take.

“Of course he feels the same way, Draco.”

“Did I say that out loud?” Idiot, clearly I did.

Hermione doesn’t move, just looks at me with eyes filled with curiosity. 

A stick breaks behind me and I jump. Pivoting around, I’m met with sad, green eyes. _ Harry. _

“You- you weren’t meant to hear that…” I utter. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just steps closer to me and pulls me towards him. 

“Oh Draco,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to put you through that.”

I tug myself out of his grasp. “You’re sorry that I like you?! That’s great Harry, just great.” I turn to seek Hermione, but see that she’s already vanished. Apparated off to her boyfriend probably. 

“Draco!” Harry shouts after me. “That’s not what I meant at all you prat!”

“Then what the fuck did you mean by that?!” I spit. “How else could I possibly have taken that statement?!”

Harry walks closer and holds my upper arms to my body. “I like you, you absolute prick.” He stares right into my eyes, and I feel like the earth is going to swallow me.

“I like you, despite everything that this world has thrown at us.” Harry waves a hand at us, and I swallow hard. “Despite you being a fallen angel, despite your father and Voldemort trying to kill us, despite our less-than-great history. Draco, how could you ever think otherwise?”

“I don’t know…” I whisper. 

Harry is so close to me my brain is melting and I’m no longer thinking straight. My gaze slides down to his lips for a split second before I pull them back to his eyes. They are sincere and filled with longing, and I don’t know how I managed not to realise. I shrug Harry’s hands off me so I can move, and throw myself at him. Our chests collide with a dull thud and I wrap my arms around his neck. Our faces are nearly touching, mine slightly higher than Harry’s. His eyes are even more green this close up, his glasses reflect me in the transparent and fragile lense. Harry shifts his arms so they are around my waist, and pulls me that last fraction closer. 

When our lips finally meet, my eyes slide closed and I sigh heavily. We fit perfectly together. I slowly start to respond to his insistent kiss, marveling at how right this feels. How right we feel. Harry is the one that opens his mouth first, but I stop it there. Today is not the time to snog in a forest. He understands doesn’t try again, just allows his hands to rub circles on the small of my back. When we finally break apart, Harry is smiling a silly grin at me and I feel impossibly stupid. 

“I’m so sorry that I’m so oblivious,” I say. 

“You? _ Ron _ told me _ today _that you like me. Right before we left for the Manor, actually.”

“Yeah. Well Hermione told me _ at _the Manor!”

Harry shakes his head. “The fact that Ron, who hasn’t seen you at all while you’ve been here, had to tell me, means I was clearly the more oblivious.” 

Sighing, I say, “Well, you are a Gryffindor.”

“And what exactly is that meant to mean?!” Harry asks with mock exasperation.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Just that Gryffindors are known to not be the brightest.” I allow a smirk to cross my face.

“Explain Hermione then, mister I-have-a-response-for-everything.”

“She is merely an exception.” 

Harry scowls, and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to kiss it away. Remembering what just happened, I finally give in to something I want and do just that.

  
  



	12. Part 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A part that’s actually on time for once *sweats nervously* I hope you enjoy it!

**24th April, 1998**

An entire week passes in a blur. Rapid movement would be the two best words to sum it all up. Hermione had indeed Apparated to Weasley that time in Rivington Woods, but not because she was annoyed or disgusted. No, instead she left because of a coin in her pocket? The details are a little bit fuzzy, but she said something about ‘the DA’ and ‘encrypted’. It’s probably a form of communication, and I will have to find out in more detail. Regardless, Weasley had called her out to the Forest of Dean. When Harry and I had finally arrived close to an hour later — after talking things through and deciding that we are both in for the long haul — the clearing was bustling with activity. There were even more plans in place that I had no idea about, including something to help rescue Mother. 

Thoughts of my mum pull me from my mind, and I glance over to the still vacant room across the hallway. Grimmauld seems to know that something is wrong, trying desperately to cheer all of its occupants up with random bursts of new colour on the walls, or random vases on cabinets that appeared from thin air. Harry and I are still in our separate rooms, but Hermione and Weasley (who is very annoyed that I can’t quite call him  _ Ron  _ yet) share a room on another floor. The house is also filled with other people that Harry seems to have collected somehow. He assures me that each of them serves a specific purpose, but I haven’t been told what those purposes are. I haven’t been told much of anything. 

“Draco, here you are!” My attention snaps to Harry at the sound of his voice, and I watch as he walks into the drawing room. Flopping down onto the sofa next to me, he runs his eyes over my wings. I’ve stopped trying to spell them away or cover them, and now they are permanently out in the air. Harry seems absolutely fascinated by them.

“Here I am,” I concede. “You after something?”

“A man can’t stop and talk to his boyfriend occasionally?”

A blush creeps up the back of my neck. The word ‘boyfriend’ still feels exceedingly odd. “Oh please,” I say. “You never see me during the day, you’re working,” I chide. “And it’s very important work, so if you  _ aren’t  _ asking me something then you should probably head back.”

Harry scowls half heartedly. “What if I was using you as an excuse to leave?” He laughs, unable to keep the serious expression on his face for long.

I roll my eyes. “That’s what I am to you? An excuse?!”

“Of course not Dray!” I glare at the horrid nickname that Harry has shifted into using. “I merely needed a distraction.”

I cock my head at him, and his eyes widen. I scowl, knowing exactly what he is staring at. “Yes Harry,” I sigh. “There are feathers. There have been feathers for just over a week by now.”

“I know,” Harry winges. “But they’re gorgeous.”

I shake my head and twist around on the sofa so that my back is to Harry. I can  _ feel  _ his grin from behind me as I lay back into his chest. My wings fold slightly, uncomfortable. They don’t stay like that for long though, not with Harry running a reverent hand across them. He smooths them out and caresses the dull-looking feathers. I had assumed that by now they would be back to lush white, but no. Still the ugly brown. Sometimes I wonder if they’ll ever change back. Maybe my life is too far tainted for the consequences to ever truly leave. 

“What are you thinking of?” Harry asks slowly.

“Nothing,” I shake my head. “Just wondering if my feathers will become white again or not.”

“That’s not it,” Harry says. “The thoughts looked much darker than that.”

Sighing, I reply, “What if my life is too dark, and they are permanently stained…”

Harry rubs soothingly across my feathers, calming me down just as I was about to spiral out of control. There is nothing positive in my past to look back on, it’s just not worth it. 

“Harry! Draco!” A head of bushy hair rushes into the drawing room. “I thought I’d find you in here,” Hermione says as she hurries towards us. Her eyes roam over our position on the sofa, and a blush reappears on my cheeks. I can’t find it in myself to move though, so she’ll have to get over it. 

“We have word on your mother,” she reveals, not sparing a second glance to the way we’re sitting. 

I leap up, sprinting off of Harry as I grab for her. Gripping her shoulders tightly, I stare at her,wordless. Until I’m not. “How is she?!” Is the first thing to leave my mouth. “ _ Where _ is she?!” That’s a much more sensible question than the first, but both are equally important.

“She’s doing good considering where she is,” Hermione says. I don’t like the sound of that. Reading the look in my eyes, she sighs. “Lucius has her in th-”

“My father has her! She’ll die!” I yell. 

Hermione winces at the loud noise at such close proximity. “If you’d let me finish…” I nod.

“She is in the Ministry of Magic, being held and awaiting trial for crimes against the Ministry.”

How Hermione manages to stay as calm as she is is beyond me. My body starts shaking in rage, and Harry leaps up to stand behind me. His hand rubs comfortingly along what he can reach of my back, but upon deciding that’s too hard, he instead walks to my side and places his head on my shoulder. My eyes start burning, and I feel my dissolve start to crumble. 

“Crimes against the Ministry?” Harry asks for me. “Like treason?”

Hermione nods solemnly. “Lucius is still considered a reliable source to the Wizengamot,” she explains. “His word as Head of Malfoy House overrides her’s, especially as a woman in a court full of old-fashion men.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Harry exclaims. I go rigid under his touch, and he presses a kiss to my shoulder. 

“It’s preposterous, but it’s the way of the world,” I say, defeated. 

“You can’t think like that Dray!” Harry says, reaching a hand up to caress the back of my neck. “Everything will be okay.”

“You can’t promise me that, Harry.” I turn my head to look at him. “This is  _ war _ , bad things happen. Mother being trialed is just another strike Lucius is using against me.”  _ Lucius _ , not  _ my father _ . I’m done relating the two, I can’t consider him my flesh and blood any longer. Not with how everything is turning out. 

“I have more,” Hermione announces. I’d forgotten she was in the room. Harry and I focus our attention back on her, and she clears her throat. “We have people arriving there as we speak. Their goal is to persuade the Wizengamot to vote her innocent.”

“And by  _ persuade  _ you really mean…?” Harry asks. As I said, this is war. We need to go to any length possible to ensure we win. Voldemort can’t be allowed to rule over the world. 

“Manipulate,” Hermione says with a shrug. “If that doesn’t work, then maybe a couple of Unforgivables.” It sounds so matter-of-fact, coming from a girl who never would have imagined using those spells two years ago. 

Harry nods and wraps her into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispers. I smile to myself, watching their casual affection and how well they know each other after years of friendship. 

“Draco?” Hermione addresses me.

“Hermione,” comes my response. 

“Do you want to come with us? To retrieve Narcissa?”

I don’t even have to think about my answer. “Yes!” 

***

Despite originally being ecstatic about helping rescue Mother, I have since realised just how much work goes into these missions. Harry has placed our usual Glamours back on, but that’s just skin level and is very easy to remove. Hermione takes over once my skin is freckled, altering traces of my magic. I can feel it pulse within me, crashing around wildly. She assures me it will calm down after a little while, but with the way it’s acting I worry it might explode out of me. Hermione then works to change my scent, my weight and height, and some more intricate details that Harry skimmed over. When presented with a mirror, it’s like I’m inside someone else’s body. Harry might have done a good job when I was just him, but Hermione’s spell work truly takes the disguise to another level. A pang of loss rings in my chest though, my wings hidden away for the first time in a week. Oh well, it needs to be done. For Mother. 

Harry gets transformed too, and then we are rushed out of the drawing room and into the kitchen. There is basically an army sitting around on the tiles, the table having been taken hours ago by the first people to have arrived. 

Who are these ones, Granger?” A man wearing maroon robes asks Hermione as she steps in behind us. 

“Daniel Gresham and Thomas Anstey.” Those are the names she picked out for us, further away from our real names than the ones we usually go by. 

The man walks over to us and shakes Harry and I’s hands firmly. “Pleased to have you, Gresham and Anstey.”

I don’t respond, too busy taking everything in. 

There are witches and wizards everywhere, dressed in high end robes and carrying wands that are poised; ready to be used in a moments notice. Harry and I are pushed into the crowd with instructions to stretch our muscles and then find a Portkey. Having both been on the Quidditch teams back at Hogwarts, stretching doesn’t take very long. Mine are a little bit stiff, less flexible than usual due to being in hiding for a month and a half. Harry doesn’t seem to have the same problem, racing through his own stretches and warm ups before watching me go through my own more slowly.

“You look beautiful,” he says. I blush. He makes me blush so easily, it’s actually pathetic. Cursing my pale skin, I shake my head at him in exasperation.

“That’s all you can think about right now? The way I look and not what we are about to do?”

“Well, I’m thinking about that too. But I couldn’t remember the last time I told you how good you look, so I figured I might as well now.” To Harry’s credit, he looks at least a little bit sheepish. 

“Two days ago, Ha- Daniel.” Nearly messed up. No one can know our real identities, even though we are on the same side. Lucius and his lord can’t know we are involved in this, otherwise the consequences could be grave. 

“Two days!” Harry exclaims. “I missed yesterday!”

I scoff. “You don’t need to say it every day,” I tell him. “It might lose its effect,” I whisper. 

Standing up and shaking my legs out, I pull Harry to his feet. He presses a cheeky kiss to my nose, earning himself a whack to the side of his head. Rubbing the spot and wincing, he glares at me. I shrug, pecking his mouth as an apology. 

“When you two are done being sickly, grab a portkey!” The man from earlier shouts from across the room to us. Harry and I nod hurriedly and find the closest portkey; a muggle notebook like the one Hermione uses. I gaze at Harry, taking in his serious face, before my stomach turns and the world twists around.

***

The world comes back into focus in the Ministry of Magic’s main thoroughfare. Floos whoosh around us, workers walking hurriedly through the passages and corridors to get to wherever they’re going. Our group of five takes a bit of time to check out where we need to go, and then a witch whose declared herself leader of the four wizards confidently makes her way through a corridor and into an elevator. Despite having spent the last two hours preparing for this, I’m not really sure what we’re doing. Apart from rescuing Mother, I don't have the faintest idea. When I turn to ask Harry if he knows, I become stuck in my place. The dark blue, glowing brick walls flicker in and out for a second while my eyes catch on swirling robes. I’d recognise the, anywhere. Lucius wears ones just like them. Shaking my head in my paranoia, I force myself to keep walking. There’s no way it’s Lucius. 

Except when I look closer, it most definitely is. His platinum hair has been cut short, and is now worn similarly to the way I wear mine. The style of an unmarried pureblood. If anything, that knowledge makes me glad. Mother and I will no longer have to live in the Manor with Lucius and his lord, the evil we were forced to serve for years. Apart from that, the man who I used to consider my father looks exactly the same from the back. I tear my eyes away and catch Harry’s, trying to communicate with him though my eyes. His widen as I flick my gaze to Lucius, and he seemingly understands. What if the magic woven through Harry and I doesn’t hold? What would Lucius do? As we walk past him and enter an elevator I allow myself to exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I need to tell the others. 

“Guys-” I stop speaking before I’ve even begun. Lucius has turned around and is making his way towards the lift. The wizard with dark brown hair next to me recognises him, and whispers into the witch’s ear. Panic crosses her face for less than a second, but then she shakes her head. Lucius has to enter, otherwise it would be suspicious. Swallowing hard and placing my features into the mask I’ve spent years perfecting; the one he taught me, I force myself to calm down. I’m under numerous enchantments and I couldn’t recognise myself, there’s no way the man who pretended to be my father would be able to. Right? 

While he’s walking into the lift, I allow myself to scan his face. It’s just as pointy and pale as usual, only now there’s a jagged scar cutting him from his forehead to his chin. That’s joined by a few new wrinkles he’s never allowed himself to have before. Probably the only reason he’s kept the marks is to gain other people’s sympathy. Forcing myself not to scowl and lash out, I reach for Harry’s hand. Except Harry doesn’t take it. Instead he pulls away slowly. When I look at him, he smiles softly but makes no move to do anything more than that. I understand, we’re on mission. I’ll have to get through this by myself. When the elevator finally jolts into action, my hands fly up to the ceiling to grab one of the hand holds. More than a couple of the people in the lift look at me, smirking. Huffing, I spread my legs and bend into my knees slightly to keep my balance. 

The group of rescuers is meant to depart on the fifth floor, and I can only hope that Lucius gets off before that. The lift pings and a woman’s voice announces the floor.

“Level Two,” she says. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Improper Use of Magic Office; Auror Headquarters; and Wizengamot Administrative Services.” I wince at the loud volume of the announcement. 

My wish seems to come true though as he gets off on the second floor, leaping out of the elevator and all but running down one of the corridors. Either he is late for something, or terrified of the five of us. Then my brain seems to catch up.

“Do they know where Narcissa is exactly?” I ask the witch. 

She shakes her head at me, at the person she thinks is just another wizard. Not Narcissa’s only son. “Not exactly, no,” she confesses. “All we know is that she is being held on the fifth floor near the International Magical Office of Law.” She rattles off the name as if it’s committed to memory. It probably is.

“What if she has been moved? To the second floor near Wizengamot Administrative Services?” Lucius rushing down there can not be coincidental. He never does anything without a very strong motive.

“It’s possible,” she confirms, running a hand through her short hair. Only then does it seem to click in her mind. “Oh!” She exclaims. “Let me handle this, I’ll get word back to base.” I merely nod.

“Level Three,” the recorded voice calls out. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes; Obliviator Headquarters; and Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee.” Two elderly women step into the elevator, cutting any possible conversations short. They look nice enough, but in this moment they are incredibly frustrating and they don't even know it. The whole group seems to heave a sigh as the annoying voice announces the fourth floor and the women get off. 

“Great idea Anstey,” the leader of the group says to me. For a second I’m really confused, until remembering the name Hermione picked out for me. “Base will most likely send a different team down to investigate, and we will continue to progress as required.”

I nod, pursing my lips. As much as I’d like to be able to be part of that team, no one on this one can know my identity. If something goes drastically wrong, them knowing could be the death of me. And by extension, Harry. I can’t let that happen. I haven’t survived as much as I have just to die at the hands of someone less than my father. Not by any means less than what I endured at the Manor. Harry catches my gaze and I look at him, taking in his new body for the hundredth time. The angles are all wrong, not at all the soft yet sharp ones he’s had since Fifth Year. Shaking my head to clear it, I focus my attention straight ahead again. This time when the elevator dings and the doors open, everyone files out. Fresh air has never felt so lovely. Four floors above the level we arrived on, and the walls are still flickering. Someone must not be paying enough attention to their job. 

The witch whose named herself leader stares at the two corridors for a second, before walking down the one on the left. One of the wizards, a man with dark blond hair, asks if she’s sure it’s the right one, and she nods after a moment's hesitation. Not as sure as I’d like, really. Regardless, our group makes its way down the hallway before turning into one of the rooms. It’s spacious, plainly coloured, and very practical. The sign above the door reads ‘International Magical Office of Law’ and my pulse slows slightly. I don’t know what had me so paranoid, but I’m glad when my breathing evens back out to normal. The witch enters the office first, followed by the other two wizards, leaving Harry and I to take up the back. We exchange quick glances before stepping into the room. As we cross the threshold, the lights flicker and the door slams behind us. I whirl around and try the handle, just to find it locked in place. Panic takes over me, my palms sweating slightly. 

The wizard with short, dark brown hair pushes me aside and tries the handle himself, while the witch lights her wand. Harry joins her in looking around the room, leaving me with the wizard with dark blond hair. The man catches my gaze and nods to me, gesturing to his wand held low in his hand beside him. Confused, my eyes flick down to it. He slowly waves it through the air, creates a string of floating letters. By the time I take in the almost blood-like colour of the script, the lights are totally out. The words glow in the dark now, and I finally see them spelling out the terrifying sentence ‘got you now’. 

  
  



	13. Part 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s been a month... I hadn’t realised it had been that long... Regardless, here we are. Enjoy this part, and stay safe during quarantine and isolation Xx

**24th April, 1998 (continued)**

I stare at the little letters, horror gripping my heart. The man vanishes the line of writing with a flick of his wrist, the letters exploding into a thin cloud of red smoke. Willing myself not to show any sign of weakness, I draw my wand slowly from my pocket. But I don’t raise it at the wizard. No, instead I tap it against my wrist three times in quick succession. Harry’s head — or rather, Daniel’s head — whips up and around from the wall. His eyes focus on the dark blond wizard and his threatening pose, and stiffens. Then he relaxes, goes back to the corner he was studying, and does nothing. At least, he doesn’t do anything on the outside. I know that his brain is whirring at max speed right now, he’s just disguising his thinking by pretending to be thinking about something else. _ Hidden in plain sight… _

My eyes turn the fraction they’d shifted back to the man before me, and I clench my teeth together to stop myself shooting off a spell. Firing anything prematurely could be the difference between life and death, and it’s not an odd I want to tip against me. The man takes a step forward, a malicious glint evident in his eyes despite the darkness. A smirk crosses his face a second before his lips move. Mind ahead of body, I duck for shelter immediately. My instincts must be working quickly today, as I take in the desk in front of me. I watch as the spell collides with wood, and I recognise it as Confringo when the desk is burnt and partially exploded. Scowling at the ashes and charred wood which remain, I grab my wand off the floor and rack my brain for a spell. Anything that could take this wizard down without causing too much damage. There must be something. 

Grinning madly as inspiration strikes, I whip my head around one of the remaining legs of the desk and wordlessly cast. Two spells roll into the one, one invisible and the other leaving a dash of purple in its wake. Even if the man identifies the spells, my casting is too quick to dodge them. With my heart hammering, I duck back behind my shelter and listen for the impact. It comes only a second later; a dull thud barely heard over everyone else's shouts of confusion. Taking a chance that’s more Harry-like than myself, I turn to see if it’s worked properly. 

Sure enough, the top of a dark blond head is visible on the floor. Harry—_Daniel_—catches my eye and tips his head sideways, asking for the spells used. The first is answered for him when the man on the ground tries and fails to scream at me. Daniel mouths “silencio” at me, and I nod rapidly before mouthing back “leg-locker curse”. He lifts his eyebrows, wondering how I cast those spells in quick succession successfully, but doesn’t say anything. Quiet settles over the office, and I scan the room for damage. The desk is scorched and some of the surrounding floor, but the rest of the room seems to be unscathed. 

“Diffindo!” A flash of white light floods the room, and my eyes close with the intensity. I don’t get the chance to wonder who cast the charm before searing pain rushes up my arm. Tears prickle at my eyes and I cry out, voice hoarse. I grab at my right arm tightly, seemingly holding it together. I recoil when my hand comes into contact with a warm liquid. There is no other option than blood. Gritting my teeth against the horrible pain and forcing worries out of my mind, I construct a shield charm before a numbing one. The pain dulls, but I can’t bring myself to look at it. I swap my wand into my left hand, staring at the blank skin there, revealed beneath my torn sleeve. It takes a second to remember that I’m not myself, yet the absence seems really out of place. When I look up into the room the blood drains from my face. The witch with the short hair who had declared herself leader is at the head of the opposition, firing curses and hexes at the rest of the rescue team. 

Harry is facing her head on, rage clear in his eyes. _She’s the one who hit me. _This mission has gone dreadfully wrong. Clearing my mind of panic yet again, I send off all the spells I know to block ill-intended ones from hitting more people. The witch scowls as she realises what I’ve done, but she doesn’t seem to know who did it. Her brows furrow and she tries to figure out counterspells for it. I’m glad that Finite Incantatum doesn’t work on the majority of them, as it gives Harry an advantage. He casts multiple jinxes and hexes, but the witch is very quick and blocks all of them with a menacing smile. Rage boils in my gut but I hold myself back, scolding myself for even thinking with my emotions for a second. That loses wars. 

The door to the office suddenly bangs open, and my jaw drops. Two people stand at the entrance, wands raised and poised for battle. The witch turns to them and I feel glee settle in my stomach. One of our wizards must have contacted base. But the witch nods sharply and they fall in behind her. _ Or not. _Now scowling instead, I shout out to the wizard still on our side. He turns to look at me—still protected by the wards I’ve put up—and I gesture to him to run to me. The wizard with dark brown hair makes a dash towards me, ducking behind the desk. Upon seeing that he made it safely, the witch shouts in frustration. 

Despite the heavy spells that are protecting Harry, I’ve forgotten to put some up around the desk. One of the new wizards has noticed that, and sends a Bombarda flying at it. The desk explodes in splinters, raining down from the sky. I hastily set a shield up over the brown haired man, receiving a smile from him as his head is saved from the raining wood. Taking advantage of the stall in action, the ex-leader witch sends her own Reducto spiralling upwards. Blue light fills the room a second before plaster caves in, the ceiling falling down around everyone. Harry—Daniel! His name right now is Daniel—rushes to pull up a shield, managing just in time to avoid being hit. The wizard with dark brown hair isn’t so lucky, and a large chunk of plaster and wood falls on top of him. 

His shouts are barely heard over spells firing rapidly at Harry and I, and we both strengthen our shields. Daniel runs to the trapped and injured wizard, struggling to move the rubble off of him. Not taking any risks, I leap up from where I am still crouched on the floor and fire spells at the three opposers. Arrows and flashes of white leave my wand, racing towards the strangers in quick succession. All of them are deflected and either fall to the ground uselessly or simmer out of existence. Scowling, I aim my wand and rack my mind for something that won’t be expected. I never get the chance to before spells are being shot back at me. Saying the first spell that comes to mind, I wrap myself in a bubble of yellow netting. It’s meant to reflect any spells used back at their caster, and has the advantage of being widely unrecognised. 

The net absorbs the curses aimed at me, and I grin in success at the looks on their faces. I glance at Harry behind me and see him smirking as well, before his eyes turn to terror. I spin back around and see that my net has been hijinxed. Balls of coloured light, flame, and water, are all simultaneously forming inside the yellow strings. Hurrying to disassemble the net, horror grips my heart when Finite Incantatum fails to drop it. _ It’s been cursed away, changed. _I’m at a loss, my heart hammering in fear. All at once, the spells spin towards me, colliding in a mini explosion around me. I stumble backwards blindly, my hand clutching at my head. I hit something solid and fall to the ground. I register the cold ground beneath me before the world fades to black. 

***

The sound of shouts and the flash of lights wake me up again, quickly followed by the smell of charred wood and magical explosions. The events rush back to me, a headache blooming due to the images behind my eyes. Harry yells something and I sit up rapidly. My head spins and pain races down my upper arm once again. I glance at it, immediately regretting my decision, I numb it swiftly and then stand up. Harry—_Daniel_, that’s right—casts something that makes the witch crumble to the floor in a pile of flesh. He shakes his head to himself just as one of the wizards leaps up from next to Daniel. Diffindo is used for the second time today, and gets Daniel’s leg harshly. Blood cascades down Harry’s leg and to the ground; he falls less than three seconds later. His leg looks like it’s going to fall off, and I rush over to him. 

Sparing a single second to Stupefy the newly-conscious wizard, I fall next to Harry and pull him into my arms. The dark brown haired wizard (the one still on our side) says something that I don’t catch, but I zone it out to feel Harry’s pulse. It’s strong beneath my fingers, but his leg is still bleeding quite quickly. Lights flash again, but there is no explosion or collision this time. I lift my head after pressing a kiss to Daniel’s forehead and am astonished to see a swarm of MediWitches spilling into the office. They fuss over the other wizard for a second before spotting Harry and I. Four of them rush over to us, panic evident behind their eyes despite having calm faces. 

A spell is used to numb my arm further than mine allowed, and an old spoon is shoved into my left hand. Before I get the chance to be confused, it activates and I’m whirled away from the Ministry. _ Portkey… _St Mungo’s comes into view in a splash of white and noise, and I’m sent flying behind one of the MediWitches down a corridor. I can feel blood trickling down my arm again, as well as in the back of my throat. Numbing only the wound may seem like a good idea, but the warmth trickling against my skin just serves as a reminder that I’m injured. Worry over Harry takes root in my mind, but I stop myself asking the Healer where he is. She doesn’t know I’m Draco, she knows me as Tom. Besides, she wouldn’t willingly let an ex-Death Ester talk to the Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

I’m flown into an emergency room and quickly tucked into a bed. The MediWitch calls for another Healer, and a plump woman with grey waddles into view. She looks at my arm before rapidly speaking to the other woman. She grabs various potions off a trolley I hadn’t even realised was there, forcing them down my throat. I scrunch my nose up at the bitter taste and lumpy texture, but can’t bring myself to say anything about it. Wands are then drawn and swept over the cut. Most of their conversation isn’t understandable, and the things I recognise aren’t good. I don’t want to know how deep the cut is, how close it is to the humerus. 

Forcing my eyes closed and shutting the Healers out, I try to think about something that won’t cause me to panic. I think about the rough sheets I’m lying on, the bright white light that isn’t blocked out regardless of my eyes being closed, the bustle of people moving around in the corridor. None of them work. I try to think about Harry instead, think of the moments where it was just us. The times we paraded as boyfriends through London, the magical bookstore, the man behind the counter at the potion store, the nights we’ve spent in comfortable silence in the drawing room at Grimmauld. It warms my heart, yet at the same time it feels like a stab to the gut. Harry is bleeding in another room somewhere. _ I have to get to him. _

Three taps on my arm jolts me back to reality, and my eyes fly open. The MediWitches glance curiously at me, but how could they ever understand the gesture? The warning I sent to Harry just before the battle? Sighing, I shake my head at them, indicating that I’m fine. They nod, and their wands start moving again. I turn my head to the right, trying to glance at the cut. This was probably the worst time to do so, and I feel my mouth filling with a gross taste that’s almost blood-like, coppery. I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying not to focus on the way my skin was being knit back together. Despite being numbed, my brain makes me think I can feel it still. I shudder. 

“You can open them again, sir,” one of the Healers says to me. Swallowing harshly, I look at my arm again. The cut is totally gone, the only sign a long, jagged line. 

“Do you want us to heal the scar, sir?” The MediWitch with greying hair asks me. I shake my head. 

“No, but thank you.” This scar isn’t created by stupid decisions, unlike the one on my other arm. It serves as a reminder of something I’m proud of, the time when I helped people instead of threatening them. 

“Well then, Mr…?” 

“Anstey,” I reply after only a second trying to remember the false name. 

“Mr Anstey, you are free to go after filling in the paperwork.” The Healer hands a small stack of parchment to me along with a quill, and I set out filling it in. 

Half an hour later, I’m directed towards ‘Mr Gresham’s room. He is sitting up in bed, filling out his own paperwork by the time I arrive. How I managed to fill it all out is beyond me, considering there wasn’t much thought given to Thomas Anstey’s background. How Harry is going to manage is an even bigger mystery, given how he isn’t good at making up information quickly. Scanning my eyes around the room, k smile when I realise Harry’s Healers aren’t in right now. 

“Hey, Harry,” I murmur as I enter the room. 

His head rockets up and a goofy grin crosses his features. He shuffles over in his bed and taps it, gesturing for me to sit down next to him. I roll my eyes. 

“There is no way we’ll both fit,” I chuckle. 

He scowls. “Worth a shot.”

I shake my head at him, a smile on my lips. “How’s your leg?”

“I’m lucky it’s still there, according to my MediWitches,” Harry says. “But I can’t feel it right now, so… okay?” He laughs softly. 

Nodding, I turn my side to Harry so he can see my jagged scar. “This is all the damage left on me.”

“You keepin it?” Harry asks in broken English. I scowl at him and he grins at my expression. 

“Yes, I’m _ keeping _it,” I say, emphasising the correct pronunciation.

Harry returns to his paperwork with a huff, ignoring me. Sighing, I shuffle closer to his bed and peer over his shoulder. 

“Do you need some help with that?” I ask with a pointed glance at the one filled out line. 

“Yes please,” Harry says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m bollocks at paperwork and questions I can answer.”

“I’m aware,” I say with a smirk. He hands me the parchment and quill and I start answering the rest of the lines. 

***

An hour or so later, Harry is Apparating us out of St Mungo’s and onto the entrance of Grimmauld. Harry chose to heal the scar across his thigh, not wanting to remind himself of what would’ve happened if he actually had lost his leg. I don’t say anything about our different opinions, telling myself it would be a stupid thing to argue about when nothing has really changed. I follow him down the corridor and through the stone door into the kitchen. Hermione is waiting there anxiously for us, Weasley sitting in front of her on the counter. She rushes towards us as we enter the room, pulling us both into a hug. Weasley stares for a second, eyes filled with confusion. When I glance over at Harry, I see why. Laughing, I pull out my wand and aim it at Harry. 

The Glamours fall away, revealing Harry who is only just understanding what I’m doing. He laughs too, before dropping mine. He grins at me as my skin slowly turns back to pale white, and I reach up to peck him gently on the lips. He smiles and brings an arm around my waist as I turn away. 

“Welcome back mate!” Ron calls before making his way to Harry and slapping his back. Harry winces but covers it up with a laugh. “Glad to see you and the ferret are still alive.”

I roll my eyes at the name. “At least call me _ Malfoy,_” I joke. “I don’t call you Weasle… although I could.” I raise my eyebrows at that and Harry slaps my waist gently. 

“No you can’t,” he tells me firmly. “And yes Ron, maybe stop calling him ‘the ferret’ until you actually get along.” 

Ron nods slowly, rolling his eyes. “I guess so.” He moves away from us and towards Harry’s counter again. “Anyway, we brought Indian if anyone was hungry.”

Hermione floats plates, cutlery, and glasses down into the dining room, followed by Ron carrying the takeout bag. 

“Harry, can I talk to you for a moment?” I ask him quietly. 

He nods immediately, sensing the serious tone behind my voice. “Of course, in here,” he says, pulling me into another room I hadn’t known existed. “What’s wrong Draco?”

“Well,” I start with a shuddering breath. “It’s looking really likely that Mother is on the second floor after all.”

Harry tips his head to the side, before his green eyes widen. “Which means no one’s looking there, because the others were never on our side…”

“Exactly. Lucius will have free rein over her. Who knows what he’ll do.” I feel tears welling in my eyes, and I grit my teeth to stop them falling. I don’t want Harry to see me cry, not when we just won a battle.

“Draco,” he whispers. “I will sort something out, I promise.” He steps closer to me and pulls me towards him. His arms wrap around my back in a tight, warm hug. I reach up and cross my hands behind his neck while I push my head into him. 

“Please don’t make promises Harry. Promises never work out.” Now a tear really does fall, trickling down my left cheek. 

“Maybe, but I’m Harry Potter,” he chuckles softly. “I’ll ask _ Hermione _if that makes you feel more secure.” He moves a hand to the back of my head and rubs it gently. “I’ll go in myself if I have to, Draco. Narcissa won’t be allowed to come to any danger.”

I pull my head away slightly, looking into Harry’s set eyes. He’s so certain that nothing will go wrong. I suck in a breath as Harry wipes a tear away from my face. Swallowing hard I step out of his embrace. 

“Thank you…” I murmur into the quiet. 

Harry smiles and kisses me softly, lips pressed together for a brief second. “You know what I miss?” He asks out of nowhere.

“No…?”

Harry doesn’t answer in words, instead pulling his wand out of his robes. He waves it over me in a familiar pattern. “_These._”

His hand runs over my back, and up my now exposed wings. They still aren’t white, and there are still bald patches where the feathers have refused to grow back, but Harry still loves them. Actually, I’d say he adores them. I grin at him, my smile cutting through the tears. 

“Come on,” Harry says. “Let’s join the others.”

“Won’t Weasley-”

“Don’t worry about him. He won’t say anything, and if he does… Well, it won’t be good.” Harry laughs softly at his own empty threat, and comfort wraps around my shoulders. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Part 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter out on time! I hope you’re staying safe and healthy, and home! Enjoy Xx

**26th April, 1998**

It turns out Harry  _ did  _ have a plan. Multiple, actually. After that dinner with Hermione and Ron two days ago, Harry firecalled someone who he trusted to rescue Mother from the Ministry. Once Harry told me that the rescue team was on its way back to Grimmauld, I couldn’t stop pacing around the drawing room. But now, as Apparition cracks on the doorstep, the only thing I feel is dread. What if something's gone wrong? What if she’s terribly hurt? Harry glances over at me with reassuring green eyes, before rising from his dining room chair and answering the door. 

“Right this way- over here!” Harry’s voice echoes down the corridor, bouncing off the walls. I clench my hands into fists trying to calm my nerves. Giving up immediately, I jump up from the leather sofa I was reading on, and walk to the mirror. Gazing into my reflection I sigh heavily. I pull my wand out of my pocket and wave it over my entire body. My wings slowly fade out of sight, as do the remainders of my cuts and bruises. Turning and leaving the dining room, I walk as slowly as I can towards Harry. Slowly ends up being slightly faster than normal, but it’s better than sprinting which is what I feel like doing. 

“Lay her down here,” Harry is saying when I arrive at his side in the kitchen, next to a couch that’s been transfigured into a small bed. 

“How is she?!” I ask Harry, my voice raised above normal pitch with worry. 

Harry turns to look at me and places a hand on my shoulder. “I can’t be certain.”

I swallow hard and pull him into a hug. My head rests on his shoulder as his arms wind around my back. 

“Thank you,” Harry nods to the wizard carrying Mother, a stranger to me. The man nods back and walks out into the corridor. Harry releases me from his arms and I finally turn and look at her. 

Mother’s pale skin has turned black, blue, and purple with bruises. Red lines run down her skin in the form of cuts and blood trails. I feel the warmth drain from my face as I take in a particularly harsh graze down her left side where the skin looks like it’s been peeled away and stuck back on as an afterthought. Suppressing a shudder at her delicate figure being torn apart, I pivot around to face Harry.

“We need to help her.” There is no room for argument in my voice. This has to be done and I want to be a part of it. 

“Let’s get started then,” comes Harry’s response. No questions asked. He knows how much this means to me. 

Harry summons a stack of books from somewhere in the house, and I listen as they thud the whole way down to the basement—no doubt running into furniture and knocking things over. Harry catches them with a swift hand and puts them on the rounded end of the bed, where they wobble for a while before settling in. I scan the titles quickly before finding one about testing for internal damage. The book is a massive volume in a red cover with a white cross on the front. Harry scoffs at it for a second, the colours and symbol clearly meaning something to him. Opening the cover, I search for an index on the front page. I find a section called “Magical Scans for Internal Bleeding” and flick to the referenced page. 

A wall of text and nothing else is there, and I swallow hard. 

“Maybe we will need Hermione…” I whisper. “I don’t understand a word of this.”

Harry takes the book from my hand and runs his eyes over the paragraphs. “Neither,” he confesses. “But hold on… I can fix that.” I watch as Harry pulls his wand from his pocket again and waves it over the book. The words rearrange themselves and shorten, the entire book thinning out slightly by the time he’s done. 

“There we go…” he murmurs. “Now we can read it.”

He hands me the book back and my jaw drops. Harry has essentially translated it out of scientific-medical terms into something we can easily understand. Overwhelmed by the thought, I press a firm kiss to his mouth before reading over the page. Harry wraps an arm around my waist as I read, kissing my forehead every so often. 

“Okay… so we need to cast this spell and then write down the results so we can see how her body and magic are functioning,” I tell Harry. I hold up the book so he can read the spell’s incantation and see the required wand movement. “I probably won’t be able to cast it, so can you do it?” 

“I can give it a go,” Harry says with a nod. He turns to a pillow not being used and transfigures it into a small mouse. I quickly freeze it in place so it can’t scuttle around and ruin the bed.  _ Trust Harry not to think of something like that.  _

“Salutem taxationem,” he enchants, flicking his wand to form a cross in a circle. I watch with bated breath as numbers and words rise above the mouse, detailing everything from heart rate and blood pressure to magical signature—in this case a zero, because it’s a mouse.

I hug Harry tightly before reversing his transfiguration. “I guess I’ll scribe then,” I suggest. He nods and turns to face Mother. 

“You’re sure about this?” He asks. “What if something goes wrong, it’s not like I’m a professional.”

“Then we’ll take her to St Mungo’s, I just don’t want to risk something else happening to her.” I can’t allow her to be taken again. Not when I have her now and have already failed her. 

“Sure,” he replies. “Okay then,” he murmurs under his breath. I summon a muggle pen and a notebook like Hermione’s, getting ready to take down information. 

“Salutem taxationem.” Harry casts the spell over Mother and we watch as the numbers and words rise up once again. I immediately start moving the pen over the paper, jotting down her heart rate, blood pressure, blood sugar, oxygen levels, magical core strength, and a whole range of other figures. The spell wavers a couple of times but never dies out, a testament to the strength of Harry’s power. 

“Finished,” I say, the second I write the last word. Harry drops the spell, the results wavering and flickering out of existence. 

“Let’s see them,” he replies with a raised eyebrow. I watch as different expressions cross his face. Harry seems to understand what he’s reading completely, and I feel kind of stupid that I don’t. I know what some of them mean, but that’s only a handful, and the rest I’ve never even heard of. 

“Everything looks alright Draco,” Harry declares a couple of minutes later. 

“Really?!” I ask, excitement bubbling in my chest. 

“Yeah, it’s all external damage apparently.” Harry puts the notebook and pen down on the ground before stepping closer to me. “Now we only have to clean and close her wounds,” he states. 

“Oh thank Merlin,” I breathe. I peck Harry’s lips again, finding it addictive now I’ve started.  _ I still can’t believe he lets me.  _

Harry grins and kisses me a bit longer. “Come on, let's get her healed up.”

With reference to another book—this one titled “Cleansing and Closing Wounds”—Harry and I manage to remove the excess blood and any dirt or possible causes for infection. The waste is gathered into an empty potions vial and set aside for Hermione in case she wants to run any tests on it. Then, it’s my job to knit her cuts back together. My stomach squeezes as the pale skin shifts and reforms under my wand, memories of the same on my own body coming to the forefront of my mind. Harry’s hand on the small of my back keeps me concentrated, the only reason I manage to finish the task without being sick. 

“Is that all of them?” I ask once I can’t see any more lines. 

“It appears so,” Harry confirms behind me. 

“Thank Mordred for that,” I say on a heavy breath. I never want to have to do that again. 

“You don’t want to thank Mordred,” Harry chuckles. “He’s basically Voldemort but in the past!”

“Technicalities,” I wave the argument away. “It’s a saying, and I said it.”

Harry shakes his head, black fringe falling into his eyes. “Come on, let's get her to bed.”

“Which room?” I ask. “It can’t be the one she used to be in.”

“I know…” Harry chews his bottom lip for a second. “What if she’s in your room?”

“Would there be enough space for both of us?” I say with a tip of my head. 

“Probably not,” Harry confesses. “But you could stay with me…”

“Harry Potter! Are you saying what I think you are?”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, throwing his hands up to show his innocence. “But I’d like having you next to me.” Harry blushes an adorable dark red.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it…” I admit. 

“Which part?”

I slap him. And then kiss him. “So we’re doing this?”

“I guess we are.” Harry kisses me again.

I pull away first, my breath gone and my heart pounding. “We have to move Mother.”

Harry sighs, presses his lips to the side of my mouth, and levitates my mother off the makeshift bed. He walks out of the kitchen with a backwards glance at me, and then makes his way through the corridor and up the stairs. I wait a second, not knowing what to do, before deciding to follow too. I catch up pretty quickly and walk just behind Mother’s floating feet. The stairs prove to be slightly difficult, given the sheer number of them, but Harry manages to get her up and onto the landing. I offer to help, and once Harry agrees I take over the charm. Harry all but collapses in on himself, exhausted from the amount of magic he’s used today. I levitate Mother’s body into my room—or… my old room—and carefully drop her onto the bed.

She looks ethereal there, her blonde hair a halo around her pale skin and eyelashes. Despite being really injured a couple of hours ago, she looks much better now. Her skin still has a certain tone to it, revealing recent trauma, but for the most part she looks to be healing nicely. 

“She looks good Draco.” Harry’s sudden voice behind me makes me jump, unaware as I was with my surroundings. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Harry murmurs into my ear.

“You didn’t!” I protest. “And yes, she does.”

“I definitely did, and I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. You should have seen your face!” 

I scowl at Harry from over my shoulder. He tickles me in retaliation. His fingers dig into my skin, rubbing against my ribs and waist. 

“Fine, fine!” I give in. “I forfeit!” 

“Do you admit it?”

“Guess so,” I huff. 

“Oh come here,” Harry says with an eye roll. His lips land on mine and I allow myself to smile into him. 

“We have things to do Harry,” I murmur as his mouth connects with my throat. 

“Mmmm,” Harry hums against my skin. “Yeah, you.”

“No, Harry. Like preparing for a war.” That sobers him very quickly and steps away. “Sorry, that was uncalled for,” I apologise. 

“No, no. You’re right,” he sighs. “I’ll call Hermione and catch her up with Narcissa, we’ll figure something out to keep her safe.”

I only nod in response. We turn and leave the room together. “I guess I’ll cook some dinner for us,” I offer. “Merlin knows you can’t cook.” 

“Thank you Dray,” Harry smiles. I scoff at the nickname. 

***

The water finally starts boiling, and I carefully pour it into the two mugs sitting on the kitchen counter. The teapot is heavy and very hot, and I rush to put it back down as quickly as possible. Scents of peppermint and chamomile fill the kitchen, and I tip my head closer to take it in. I push my hand through my hair, annoyed at it falling in my eyes. It’s growing very quickly, and is steadily reaching my shoulders. Sighing, I search through the cupboards to find a tea tray. As I bend down to open the bottom row of cabinets, a sharp pain cuts down my back. 

_ Not again… _ I bring a hand up and around to touch my spine, and find it covered in blood. At this point I’m just sick of it. Gasping in pain, I stand back up and hunt for a towel or something to clean up the blood I know is about to come. I don’t see anything immediately, and give up when I feel my wings twitch where they’re connected to back. A groan pushes past my lips and pain shoots down my back again. I twist and bring my hand back to my skin, finding it warm and wet. A drip rolls downwards, tracing down my skin. I feel around for the bones I know are jutting out of my back and grip them hard. They feel solid and  _ normal  _ in my hand, and I travel up to where they split into branches. The feathers are soft but droopy, and as I’m touching them they curl in towards the bone. 

A scream is ripped from me as they start to fall out; memories flashing before my eyes of the days spent in the Manor, and the pain I experienced, merging with the current pain underneath my skin. I force my hand away from the feathers and back down my bone. It’s twitching, shuddering inside my skin. 

“Draco!” Harry shouts, running into the kitchen. “What’s happening?”

Relief fills me when I meet emerald eyes. Harry will help me. He always does. His question goes unanswered, but he catches on once his eyes roam over me. Blood is dripping down my back and arm, red lines a stark contrast against my skin. His eyes bulge, he swallows hard, and then he’s rushing towards me. 

“They’re going back in Draco,” Harry explains as he looks over me. “Your wings are withdrawing into your back.”

“Ughhh,” I groan as I feel them shift slightly. Now that he’s said it, I can feel them moving beneath my skin. It’s going to be a slow process this time. Bone grates against bone and I shudder at the sound and feeling. It’s like being exposed to the cold, and it sets my teeth chattering in the most uncomfortable way imaginable. A rush of warmth follows, and I’m repulsed to discover it’s a wave of fresh blood. My head spins, the room going blurry and spotty with purple dots. 

“Nu- numb me,” I gasp out to Harry as the pain rapidly increases. 

I hear Harry patting himself down, hunting for his wand within his clothes. When he finds it, he recants a long, intricate spell.  _ Must’ve gotten it from the books. _

A cool relief washes over my body, and the pain dulls down to a bearable level. I can still feel every push into my skin, every time something catches or grates, but the pain isn’t there. 

“Thank you,” I manage to get out in a whisper shout. I shudder again, my body twitching, as the bone sinks in further. “Where is it up to?” I need to know how much longer. I need to prepare myself mentally for this. 

“Just where it splits into the branches,” Harry replies. His voice is unsure and worried.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, swallowing hard.

“I’m not totally sure…” he says. “It just- the feathers are curling in and falling off. Has that happened before?”

“I don’t think so…” I murmur. “But my memory isn’t working too great right now.”

“Oh Draco, I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” Harry walks around to face me, his hand on my shoulder and his eyes sympathetic. He rests his forehead against mine, his tan skin filling my vision and making me dizzy for a totally different reason. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say as the first branch shifts under. One of the sharp bones catches on my skin, and I feel it tear. I gesture to Harry, who goes back around and carefully unhooks it. 

“There’s no way I wouldn’t be here,” Harry replies. 

The moon is high as time passes while we stand in the kitchen, the charmed windows reflecting the sky above ground. Eventually, the entire bone structure recedes into my back, and feathers litter the tiles. Harry collects them all with wandless magic, conjuring a jar and placing them gently inside. The numbing spell starts to wear off and I can begin to feel Harry’s hands wandering over my skin gently. We stand pressed up against each other for a few minutes, wrapped up in the comfort and warmth. I feel safe and at home in Harry’s arms. But something is off. 

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Why haven’t they regrown yet?”

Harry sighs, rubbing his hand over my arm. “I’m not sure.”

I feel tears burn at my eyes. I’ve gotten so used to having wings these past few months, and now it feels weird to not have the weight pressed into my back. Searing pain shoots down the entire length of my spine again, and I almost laugh at the timing. It feels different than normal though, the pain is more… distant. It feels far away, like it’s not happening on the surface of my skin, but rather to a different person entirely. The very-most tip of my wing prods against the inside of my skin, and then it breaks through. It doesn’t stop. The bones keep rising out of my back with no intention of slowing down. The pain still doesn’t register, even as the skeleton becomes fully visible. 

“Merlin Draco!” Harry shouts as he realises what’s happening. He whips around to face my back, gasping with the sight he sees. “They’re fully regrown! Draco, they’re fully regrown!”

“Let me see!” I call out, excitement filling me to the point I can’t control my voice. 

Harry conjures a large mirror and holds it up to my face. Sure enough, the webs of bones are back in place. 

“Feathers?” I breathe. I raise my hand to touch them, but quickly withdraw when I realise just how soaked through with blood they are. 

“Let me clean them,” Harry offers with a kiss to my cheek. “Tergeo!”

I watch as the blood is siphoned off my wings, and my jaw drops. 

“Harry. Harry are you seeing this?! Please tell me I’m not imagining it!” I gush.

Harry lifts a reverent hand and strokes it over the feathers, eliciting a shiver from me. “Definitely not imagined…” he murmurs. “Dray, they’re white. Actually white,” Harry laughs with amazement and joy. 

I twist to face him, sharp pain reminding me that my back has just been split open. I wince, my face screwing up. But none of that’s relevant, because my feathers are white, and I’m fully restored. 


	15. Part 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a day late! Got caught up with uni haha. Hope you enjoy Xx

**26th April, 1998 (continued)**

I still can’t believe my wings are back. And not only back, but pure white again. Ok, so it’s only been a couple of hours and the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but still. 

“Harry,” I whisper to him where he’s dozing off on the leather sofa. The armchair I’m sitting in seems very far away from him, and utterly freezing. “Harry!” I whisper-shout when he doesn’t react. 

“_What?” _Harry groans sleepily, burying his head deeper into the cushion of the sofa. A beat passes and he seems to fall asleep again, but then he shifts. Heaving a sigh he sits up. His hair is more of a mess than usual, and the only thing I want right now is to run my hands through it. He’d probably let me, too. 

“I can’t sleep,” I murmur. 

“Well I can.” Harry doesn’t sound too annoyed, but he rolls his eyes as I pout. He lifts his arm up in a ‘come here’ gesture, and a small smile finds its place on his lips. 

Grinning, I leap up from the armchair and cross the gap to the sofa. I sit down and carefully run my hand over his cheek. Harry shudders under my skin and pulls me down. He presses a kiss to my mouth and then yanks my arm again. I fall on top of him. 

“Hey!” I protest. 

“Just lay still and go to _ sleep_,” Harry pleads. I huff a sigh but settle in in front of him. His chest is warm against my back and his arm slings around my waist under my folded wings. All I can smell is Harry. My eyes start to finally droop, and darkness reaches out to the corners of my vision. 

Harry jumps behind me and rushes to stand up. “Wait!” He says, his voice loud in the silence. 

Groaning, I lift my head and look up at him. “What?” I groan. 

“I’ve just remembered something!” Regardless of how much I want to shove his face into the sofa to shut him up, the excitement in his voice is so strong that it must be good. With no explanation given, Harry pushes me off the sofa and then runs out of the drawing room. I grumble as I stand up from the hard and uncomfortable floor, flinging a longing gaze at the sofa. Sighing, I force myself to only _ sit _on it, and wait for Harry to run back like a puppy. 

I don’t have to wait long. Thuds follow him all the way back into the room, and I shake my head when I see a pile of books floating along after him. The only thing he’s actually holding is his wand, the lazy bugger. Harry doesn’t pay me any mind as he sets about finding spots for the many books. He dumps some on the coffee table, others on the armchair, and more still on the floor. 

“What are all these for?” I ask as I cover a yawn. 

Harry jumps when he remembers I’m here too, rubbing the back of his neck and averting his eyes. But then he swallows and looks at me straight on. “I read something in one of these, that listed different types of risen angels.” He tips his head. “I didn’t remember which book mentioned it… so I grabbed all of them.”

I chuckle and walk over to where he’s crouched on the ground. “Different types?” 

“Yeah! Apparently there are different types of risen angels, and they all have magic!”

“Wow, that’s _ really _hard to imagine considering that we’re wizards.”

Harry sticks his tongue out at me. “_Extra _magic, then.” 

“So normal angels don’t, but risen ones do?” I ask. 

“Seems so,” Harry answers. “Something to do with ‘adversity bringing out powers’ or whatever.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Anyway, help me look!”

He slides a book over to me, and I wince at the size of it. “Harry, this will take all night.” I’m not really in the mood to read after having my back torn apart and magically stitched back together in the same night. 

“Good thing neither of us actually went to sleep then!” He shakes his head, his hair falling in his eyes. “Look, Draco. We really need to win this war, and it’s rapidly approaching. I will take anything if it ups the odds for us.”

I swallow hard, suddenly nervous about the role I might have to play. It’s guaranteed I’ll be fighting my family, and now? I might be able to rip them to shreds with this magic for all I know. “Of course,” I say instead. 

Harry looks at me and rubs his hand over my back. “I will help you in every way possible, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to…”

“But?” 

“But it would be great if you could.”

I nod, pushing past the lump in my throat. “I will try.”

“I know you will,” Harry smiles and kisses me softly. “But first we actually need to _ know _ what you could be capable of.”

The book he passed to me is huge, and I turn to the first page hoping for an index. There isn’t one. I groan in frustration and start flicking through the many pages. There’s chapters on all sorts of magical creatures, not just angels—or even more specifically, risen angels. Harry next to me isn’t having much luck either, if his annoyed grunts and tapping fingers are anything to go by. At one point I think I’ve found something, but it turns out to be a page on veela. They look just similar enough that my eye caught on a drawing, but no. I hold the book up and show it to Harry, who gives me a rueful smile. I shake my head and bend over my book again. 

***

An hour later, just before midnight, Harry jerks and shouts something that sounds incredibly triumphant. 

“Harry!” I scold, my hands over my ears. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says at a much more dignified volume. “I found it!” He pushes the other books off the coffee table onto the floor, and opens his one flat. 

“Why do you always seem to find things first?” I pout. 

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. Lucky, I guess.” He pauses to scan his eyes over the pages again, having lost his place while talking to me. “I honestly thought you’d chastise me for pushing books off furniture, but that works too.”

“Oh believe me, that didn’t go unnoticed.” I shuffle closer to Harry so I can see the book, and maybe also because he’s warm and I’m shivering.

The title is written in a sprawling cursive, black ink a stark contrast against slightly-yellowing parchment. It reads; “Risen Angels’ Abilities”. 

“That’s quite a long list,” I say as I scan my eyes over the subheadings. Some of them have names that send shivers down my spine, like Obsidian Angels, and others are more run-of-the-mill, like Fire Angels. I cross my fingers that whatever I am sounds threatening. As Harry said, anything to tip the war. Well, not _ anything, _but at this point I can’t really find it in myself to care. My family is a group of self-serving arseholes, and it would probably be a good thing to wipe out the family line—excluding Mother and myself, of course. As long as I don't have to be the one to do it. 

“Is there any way to shorten the list?” Harry’s question rouses me from my dark thoughts. 

“How do you mean?” I ask.

“Like, a spell, that searches for keywords.”

“Umm.” I tip my head to the right, searching through my memory for a spell. “Yes! This one should work…” I pick up my wand off the floor, tracing the side with my thumb absentmindedly, as I think of the incantation. 

Harry silently slides the book closer to me and gives me some space to cast. “Got it?” He asks. 

I nod my head yes after another couple of seconds. “I think so,” I say. 

“You don’t sound too confident!” Harry teases, poking me in my rib. 

I disguise my wince with a laugh, unwilling for Harry to see that I’m still in pain, no matter how slight. I shove him in response and lift my wand, readying myself for the tight spiral and swooping line of the required wand motion. 

“Verbum quaerere.” 

I watch with bated breath as some of the words are highlighted on the parchment. At first glance they seem to be random, until I look harder and find that they are all related to me somehow. Words like “history”, “deception”, “dark magic”, and “white” spiral across the page, emphasised with a majestic purple highlight. 

“Draco,” Harry breathes. “You did it!” He tugs me close and plants his lips on mine. The kiss is lingering this time, long and full of emotion. His tongue prods my lips and I let him in, smiling through it. When we pull apart I’m out of breath and so happy it’s shameful. Or, it would be if I wasn’t too pleased to care. 

“Let’s find out then,” I smirk as we crowd over the single book again. My eyes scan over the spread, darting from highlighted word to highlighted word. Most of them are useless—my wings are most definitely _ not _tipped with jagged metal, but that would be awesome—but we have luck with a couple. Harry reaches for a pen and notebook and starts jotting down the names; I read off some important features of each and he turns them into dot points. I cross quite a few out immediately, noticing something that’s not quite right now that it’s being said aloud. 

Eventually, there is a messy list composed of four possible options. Harry beams at me as I rearrange his page so the crossed-out scribbles are at the bottom, and the ones that might be successful sit at the top. 

“So…” Harry says. “You could be one of these.”

“I guess so,” I mutter. My eyes roam over the names and definitions, comparing each to me. I could be a Daylight Angel with my white wings, but as I look at its entry in the book I see that the transformations are different. Their wings don’t pull back inside every time, the feathers just regrow straight out of the bones. Much less painful, I think as I grit my teeth. Not resting on that for too long, I draw a line through the name—_neatly, _Harry—and move it to the bottom of the page. 

The second one that’s possible is a Silencing Angel. The scribbled description says they can mute all noise around them, meaning that not only can people no longer talk, they can’t cast verbal spells. That would be really useful. I read through the book’s description for more details, but see that I can’t be that one either. Silencing Angels have small scales that grow just behind their eyes and down their backs, looking like cracked yet smooth skin. I regretfully cross that one out too.

The third likely one is the dreaded Fire Angel from earlier. The boring one. To be fair though, it is actually kind of cool, sounding straight out of muggle fairy tales. Balls of fire, feathers that light up in the dark, and shooting flames from the eyes. I drag my gaze from Harry’s chicken-scratch of handwriting to the book. Alas, the skin around my eyes should have become thicker, and more leather-like in appearance than before my transformation. Double checking that my skin hasn’t actually changed, I find soft skin beneath my fingers. Sighing, I cross that one out too. 

That leaves only one option left on the page, staring up at Harry and I in somehow fierce silence. 

“Blackout Angel…” Harry breathes, voice quiet regardless of the silent room.

I rake my eyes over the description, taking it in. 

_ “Blackout Angels are birthed by a history of excess of dark magic. Their falls are painful and most don’t survive due to the nature of their risings. Once risen, Blackout Angels are very powerful. They can control and warp any light around them. This can be done in the form of dimming lighting, brightening a room to daylight during night, bending light to hide themselves or others, or creating reflections. They are characterised by pure white feathers, non-retractable wings, and a jagged line down the back of the left hand.” _

I stare, wide-eyed, at the definition. My hand throbs as I take it in and I rub at it in frustration. Harry grabs my attention by tugging on my arm. As I watch, he lifts it up to inspect it. 

“There,” he murmurs. “A jagged line.” Harry’s thumb traces a scar zigzagging along the outer edge of my hand. 

“It’s only a scar Harry. I got it during the battle at the Ministry.” As much as I’d like to be a Blackout Angel, I can’t get my hopes up. To believe I have all that power—and that much of an advantage over my father—and to then have it fall apart, would hurt too much. 

“Or maybe you just hadn’t noticed until then,” Harry is now saying. 

I sigh. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Look, we can test it out before committing to it, and we can always look through the book again.” Harry drops my hand but reaches for my waist and pulls me towards him. Our chests collide and he rests his forehead against mine. “Promise me you’ll try Dray.”

I swallow hard. There’s no way I can deny Harry anything, especially not when the evidence is stacked pretty high. “I’ll try.”

***

After an hour of trying to turn the lights out in the drawing room, it happens. The line across my hand lights up in white, and the bulbs flicker out of existence. I’m left gasping for breath in the dark, exhausted by the energy zapped out of me. 

“You did it!” Harry exclaims, rushing over to me and hugging me in a tight embrace. 

“I did,” I gasp out. 

“What did it feel like?!” Harry asks, releasing me and grabbing a Quick Quotes Quill and notebook. 

I think on it for a while, my mouth twisting in concentration. “It was like I pulled the light from the bulb and put it in my hand instead,” I begin. “It started with an itch beneath the skin, and when I focused on it something clicked and then _ boom_, the lights were out.”

“Interesting,” Harry mutters under his breath. “Can you release the light from your hand back into the bulbs?”

“I can try, I guess.” 

Closing my eyes, I narrow my mind to the line on my hand. It feels, full, somehow. I imagine light spilling from my skin and then forcing it upwards to the ceiling. I feel my feathers twitch behind me, and then my eyes are forced open with the intensity of it. Light flows out of hand and I push it into a vertical incline. I watch as it collides with the glass bulbs, but instead of shattering them it just settles in and dims back to normal. I heave a ragged breath and place my hands on my knees. 

“Draco! That was amazing!” Harry proclaims. He pulls me back upright and embraces me again. Too tired to protest, I allow my muscles to relax into him and rest my head on his chest. Harry starts speaking, but it clearly isn’t me. The scratch of a quill makes me remember his note taking, and when I pay attention he’s recounting what just happened. Once he’s finished, he rips the page out of the notebook and places it in an envelope. 

“Let me send this to Hermione, she’ll be ecstatic!” Harry says as he finally pulls away. I allow myself to flop down onto the leather sofa as I wait. The chime of the floo fills in the quiet, and then Hermione’s speaking too. Harry sends through the page and she exclaims something I don’t catch before calling for Ron. They speak for a while as I slowly drift off on the sofa. Mentions of battle plans needing to change creep into my awareness, but I push them away. I don’t really want to hear how I’m going to be utilised in a war right before falling asleep. I close my eyes firmly and determinedly block the chatter out. Harry’s hand on my shoulder rouses me a little later, and he’s flushed with the heat of the fire and the conversation. 

“Come on sleepy head,” Harry says while pulling me into a sitting position. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Harry hauls me onto the floor before sliding an arm under my legs and around my neck. I blush as I realise what he’s doing, but am much too tired now to really complain. Carrying me bridal style, he walks out of the drawing room and into his bedroom. He lays me gently down on the sheets and uses spells to change me into something appropriate for sleeping. My wings dig in uncomfortably against the mattress, and I fold them into a better position. The shirt Harry chose is his, and I breathe in the scent of him. My trousers have also been replaced, soft tracksuits now swamping my legs. Harry’s quite a bit bigger than me, and that’s really obvious now that I’m in his clothes. 

“Thank you,” I murmur. 

“You’re very welcome, _ Angel_,” Harry replies. 

Even in my tired stupor, I still find the energy to slap him. “Do not repeat that ever again.”

Harry chuckles behind me, and he slots his chest to my back carefully. I shift my wings again, allowing him to not be slapped in the face every time they twitch. “Very well Dray,” Harry corrects. “Thank you for agreeing to this. Sleeping here,” he adds when I make a grunt of confusion. 

“Yes well,” I say, “you’re warm.”

Harry laughs again as he slides an arm over my waist. “Sure that’s it,” he says. “Good night Draco.”

“Good night Harry.” And if when he presses a kiss to my shoulder I push into him slightly, who’s going to know?


	16. Part 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was really tired and didn’t want to put out something I wasn’t happy with. I hope you enjoy, and that you’re looking out for yourself Xx

**27th April, 1998**

Alarms blare loudly, ringing throughout the dark house. _ Why can’t I ever seem to get any sleep?! _I scrub a hand down my face and groan. Something warm moves against my cheek and I’m instantly awake, reaching for my wand on the bedside table. But as my eyes adjust to the dark, I see that it’s Harry. Warmth rises up my face, a deep blush covering the skin. 

“Using me as a pillow, were you?” Harry teases gently as he kisses my forehead. I melt against him for a second. Then the alarms register once again with a loud chime. 

“What’s the alarm for?” I ask Harry in the dark, my voice scratchy and groggy with sleep. 

“Shit!” Harry shouts, leaping out of bed and tugging me after him. “It’s Narcissa! She’s awake.”

“Mother’s awake?!” I yell out too and rush to put on my dressing gown. Harry kisses my hairline swiftly and tugs me more firmly out of the door. 

Mother has been put in my old room—which of course I already knew, but it’s weird to be walking in that direction and expecting to see someone else in it—and my heart skips multiple beats as we walk ever closer. ‘Walk’ being the operative word. Harry’s strong grip on my arm is the only thing stopping me from running, but he thinks that that would probably startle her a bit too much at this hour. 

“Harry?” I ask, coming to a rather absurd conclusion about exactly _ what _ hour it must be. “What’s the time?”

“Oh, um,” Harry pulls his wand out from his pyjama bottoms and casts a quick Tempus charm. I chuckle as the colour drains from his face. “It’s, uh- thirty six past seven…”

“We slept through the entire day,” I groan. It’s what I’d suspected. Harry, apparently wanting to make up for the lost day, quickens his pace and pulls me after him.

There is a dim light peeking out from under the bedroom door, and I force myself to count to four and just breathe for a second. There’s no telling how Mother might be on the other side of the door, and I can’t allow myself to believe that she’ll be fine. I need to be prepared for bad news, as much as I’d like the opposite for once. Harry pushes me in front of him and nods to the handle. He wants me to open it. I open my mouth, trying to think of something to say to thank him, but then decide that there aren't nearly enough words to convey it properly. So I lean close and capture his lips in a kiss, morning—or, evening?—breath be damned. Harry snakes his arms around my waist, but instead of pulling me closer like I’d expected, he pushes me away. 

“Narcissa is much more important, you can thank me properly later.” I ignore the smirk behind his voice and turn the handle. 

Light pours out of the room into the corridor, and my eyes instinctively shut with a snap to avoid going blind. 

“Draco?” 

“Mother,” I breathe out, relief flooding my thoughts. I step into the room, Harry’s hand finding a spot on my lower back. “How are you?” This is the first time I’ve spoken to her, with a chance she’ll actually respond, in weeks. Sure, talking to her unconscious body was communicating of a sort, but she couldn’t actually reply. It was more of a one-sided information dump than a conversation. 

“I’m well, actually,” she stands up from where she was sitting on the bed and meets me in the middle of the room. Despite the fact that a little while ago she was fatally wounded and fast asleep, she looks very healthy right now. Her pale skin is no longer cloudy, but much more like porcelain, and her hair looks vibrant against her face. “How are you dear?” 

I feel a warm blush creep up my neck. “I’m good, Mother,” I say, as I pointedly ignore Harry’s creeping hand roaming around my belt. “I have quite a lot to tell you though…”

“I can see that,” she responds with a matter-of-fact tone and raised eyebrows, as she looks at Harry with a thoughtful expression only visible through her eyes. 

“Good evening, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry says with a smile and a nod. “I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered nicely.” 

“Thank you, Mr Potter. I believe you had a lot to do with my rehabilitation.” 

Harry nods again. “It’s no problem.” He then looks over at me and grins. “I should let you have some time with your son,” he suggests, still facing me but obviously addressing Mother. His hand pulls away from my back, and I force myself not to react at the loss of contact. 

Mother looks at me with a knowing gaze, a small smile setting in place as Harry leaves the room. “Now, tell me everything dear.” 

I swallow hard, wondering where on earth to start. Eventually I settle on unwrapping the glamours around my wings. I didn’t even know they were in place until I had to remove them. Harry must have set them up, so as not to bombard Mother when she has just woken again. I wait, my nerves digging into my heart and clawing at me. As I feel the first brush of air against my feathers, Mother gasps. Unfortunately, I also hear the sound of fabric ripping open. _ There goes my dressing gown and Harry’s shirt. _Distantly, I think to myself that I must remember to mend them. 

“Draco!” She murmurs in amazement, awe evident in her voice. “Oh Merlin, they’re gorgeous!” She places her hands on my shoulders, staring into my eyes with a joyous gaze. “They are so white,” she murmurs. “Can I touch them?”

I could never deny her that, not when she’s looking at me like I’m her entire purpose in life. “Of course,” I whisper, terrified of shattering the moment and making her turn away. I’ve always hated her shields, the way she hides everything from the world. So now that they aren’t there, I don’t want to make her raise them. 

Mother smiles, her eyes twinkling in the dim bedroom light. She spins me around, her hands switching shoulders as I face the doorway. 

“Wow…” she breathes, running a reverent hand along the top of my right wing. The feathers tickle and twitch, eliciting a shudder at the odd sensation. I might never get used to it, but I will always allow it. “They are so soft, Draco.”

I hum in agreement, and her hand traces lines towards the outside of my wing. She runs it down the outside arc, smoothing down feathers as she goes. Another hand joins in, and now I have hands on both of my wings. My left is definitely more sensitive, I realise as Mother gently caresses it. I nearly moan out loud, but catch myself in the last second. That would have been embarrassing.

“I’m so proud of you, Draco,” Mother confesses when she turns me back around to face her. Her eyes are shining, a smile firmly pressed onto her lips. She’s willingly letting me see her, letting me understand her emotions. I pull her into a crushing hug, uncaring of the fact that we haven’t ever done this before.

“I thought I’d lost you,” I finally concede. A tear tracks down my cheek, leaving behind a shining trail. 

Mother’s hand finds my hair, and she runs her fingers through it. “I’m here, Draco. Very much present, dear.” Her own tears fall out of her eyes, but I pointedly ignore the wetness I feel against my cheek. We don’t talk about things like this, so I don’t want to scare her off by acknowledging it. I might not be able to cope with that either. 

“Why don’t you tell me about how you Rose?” Mother pulls away from the hug, rapidly turning around and walking back to the bed. She takes a second to compose herself as she sits, before offering me the armchair in the corner. “And about Mr. Potter, perhaps?”

I can hear the teasing in the second part of the question and stifle a groan. “_Mother_,” I whine. 

“Now now, Draco. It’s perfectly natural.” I cringe at her tone. She only ever uses it when we’re talking about embarrassing subjects. “So, you’re a Risen Angel now. How did that come about?”

I heave a sigh of relief as the tone shifts and becomes more inquisitive. “As you know, I Fell in the Manor earlier this year,” I start. 

Mother nods. “Yes, Lucius loved telling me all about it.” Her lips curl into a sneer of disgust. I’m sure that one day my parents loved each other, but those days ended when we were abused and tortured by his wand. 

“Well, I managed to get a letter out to Harry, and he was able to bring me here,” I gesture around vaguely at Grimmauld Place. “Ever since then, I’ve been helping him win this war. The right side, this time,” I chuckle nervously. “With each piece of information I gave, or each mission we succeeded in, I slowly started Rising.”

Mother takes a minute to digest that, swallowing hard and wrapping her mind around it. “What was the Rising process like?” She asks eventually. 

“Awful,” I laugh. “It started with growing the skeleton out of my back. It didn’t just slide out like in folktales, but my skin was torn open. Very painful.” I end the description there. Mother never has been good with blood, which I thought was rather ironic considering she prided herself on her pure blood. Prided, not prides. There is nothing to be proud about if that same pride results in genocide. “After that the feathers started to grow. Each time the skeleton folded back inside my skin and then re-emerged. It never became any less painful,” I say. “Actually, my feathers only became this white yesterday,” I explain. “I’m still quite sore, but Harry healed me quite well.”

“Is there anything different about it? I always thought that if an angel Fell, the chance of them Rising again was quite slim.” 

It’s a good question. Once she found out what I was, she had been confused. For a start, being an angel is very rare. But even more so, being a _ male _angel was one in a million. Probably more than. Mother had taken it into her hands to discover as much as possible in order to protect me. When I Fell, it had seemed like all of her hard work had been for nothing. Now that I’m sitting here in front of her, very much alive and healthy, she wants new answers. Ones that will explain our situation properly. 

“Harry took me to a bookshop a few weeks ago, I believe it was the twelfth. Anyway, it was massive, with an even bigger collection of books. There was an entire section on Magical Creatures, and Harry managed to find a couple on Fallen Angels.”

Mother’s eyes widen, surprised to hear how easily we found information. That only lasts a moment though, replaced quickly with suspicion. “What is it, Draco? There’s something you’re not saying.”

I sigh. She always manages to pick me apart without much effort. “Yes. Last night Harry and I stayed up researching specifically about Risen Angels. We found that certain, uh, _ types _of Risen Angels have unique abilities. Harry managed to narrow it down to about five types, and then I figured out which one I am.”

“And which one would that be?” Mother looks anxious, awaiting for my answer. 

“I’m a Blackout Angel,” I explain. “I can control and warp light in any way imaginable.”

“Draco, do you know what this could mean for the war?” Her eyes have lit up now, like she’s delighted with this turn of events. 

I sigh. “I do, but I’m not sure I’ll manage.” It feels weird, saying these words aloud. Harry would swat them away and assure me that we’ll figure it out, but Mother will be honest. 

“Of course you will!” She exclaims. _ Well there goes that idea. _“Draco dear, you were the top of all of your classes—except for that Granger girl who, let's be honest, won’t ever be beaten—and no one else has the ability to learn at the speed you do.” Mother shifts her hand to rest on my knee. “You will do fine, dear.”

I nod absentmindedly, not quite agreeing with her but not wanting to argue. 

Mother breaks the silence, a random question filling the quiet. “Can I see?”

I tip my head to the right, eyebrows furrowing. “See what?”

“The skin. I want to check the healing process.” Ah, of course. Mother has always been rather adamant about checking injuries. Especially if they were caused by the man she married, or anyone else out of that group of monsters. I’m amazed she managed to sit through an explanation without jumping out of her skin. 

“Well, you can try to look I guess. I can’t promise you’ll see anything.” I stand from the armchair and untie the dressing gown I’d put on a few minutes ago. It falls to the ground after a second of twisting it around my wings, leaving me in Harry’s cozy shirt. I feel a pang of regret as I spell it off me, the holes ripped in to compensate for my wings glaring up at me, but fold it neatly regardless. I take a second to pull my tracksuits up slightly, making sure they don’t ride down too low on my hips. Happy that I won’t accidentally flash my mother, I spin around and crouch before her. 

Her cold hand gently touches my back, letting me know she’s started. From there, it slowly crosses my skin, inching towards the base of my wings. The inch of bare bone still juts out sharply, but now there is some kind of leathery skin covering it. Mother prises the feathers back and peers at my skin. Her fingertip traces the fragile skin, spiralling ever closer to the base. I flinch at a sudden twinge of sharp pain, and the hand instantly withdraws. 

“Are you okay?” Mother asks in a quiet voice. 

“Fine,” I reply. “Just a bit tender.”

She hums, but turns me around all the same. “You’ve got some bruising, but it should go down with time,” she says. “It seems that Mr. Potter has done a lovely job.”

I smile to myself at her casual approval of Harry, and redress quickly. After spelling the clothes to fit over my wings without tearing them—any more than they already are—I sit back down in the armchair and look at my mother. 

“On the topic of Mr. Potter,” she starts. I stifle another groan. “What exactly is happening there?”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat trying to prevent me talking. I shake my head and work out an answer that won’t give too much away immediately. “We’re close.”

Mother rolls her eyes in a display very unlike her. “Draco, dear, we both know that’s rubbish.” 

I open my mouth to try to argue, but she gives me a pointed look. Sighing, I say, “Okay. We are very close.”

Mother looks on the verge of breaking. “Draco, you’re dating. You can’t disregard the way you look at each other.” She tips her head, analysing me in a rather unsettling way. “You also can’t ignore his hand on your lower back, and the way he tried really hard to make sure I was alright.” She pauses. “Plus, he truly has done a marvellous job on your back.”

Heaving a sigh, I crack. “Okay, yes. We’re together.”

“Perfect!” Mother exclaims. 

“What?!” I ask. “Aren’t you angry? I’m gay, Mother!”

“Of course you’re gay dear, I was never questioning that.” She looks surprised at my outburst, like she thought I was insane for thinking she didn’t already know. 

“Then why were you so insistent on marrying me off to a pureblood bride?”

“Oh Draco, that was what Lucius wanted, not me. I always thought that was old-fashioned.”

“But you never said anything!” I’m confused, not able to absorb any of the information. 

“Correct. I couldn’t possibly refuse him, he would have put plans in place for the marriage regardless of what I said.” She pauses again, a glint taking over in her blue eyes. “Now though, he has no say over your life.”

I feel a small bubble of joy well up in my chest, and I allow a grin to spread over my mouth. “Thank you Mother.”

She smiles softly, and shuffles over on the bed so she’s sitting closer to me. Her hand rises and moves to my cheek. She smooths it over my skin in a way she hasn’t since I was a young child. “I am _ proud _of you, Draco,” she says. “Proud of the fact that you managed to Rise, proud that you’ve finally found someone who makes you happy, and proud that you are helping the right side of the war win. You will single-handedly turn your fate away from the path your father and I put you on.”

Tears threaten to fall from my eyes, and I rapidly blink them away. Mother has never said that before. “Th- Thank you,” I stutter out. 

She offers me another smile before standing from the bed. “Now, I’m hungry and am going to fix myself a meal. Would you and Mr. Potter like one too?”

I grin back. “_H__arry _and I would love to join you for dinner.”

She accepts my correction of Harry’s name with a nod and a smile, and turns to leave the room. As she gets to the doorway, she pauses. “Would you mind giving me directions to the kitchen, dear?”

I chuckle beneath my breath and tell her how to get there, as well as where the bathroom is in regards to the kitchen. She nods once more and makes her way down the hallway and then the stairs. 

***


	17. Part 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a week late because of my birthday last week. It got to Monday and I thought I’d rather post it late than struggle to write. Hope you enjoy! Xx

**29th April, 1998**

“Hey, Harry?” I ask, my question quiet in the loud kitchen. Harry is bustling around, preparing a large brunch for the two of us plus Mother. It turns out that he rather likes cooking when it’s for multiple people, and living up to my Mum’s standards makes him grin sappily. 

“Mhmm?” Harry replies from where he’s standing over the frying pan. He insists on cooking like a Muggle, carefully waiting and watching, before flipping over one of the pancakes. 

“I’m worried…” I murmur, suddenly aware of how absurd the statement is. It’s a lovely, crisp Thursday morning, my boyfriend is preparing a meal for us to share, and I woke up late enough to actually be well-rested for once. Yet here I am, concerned about the upcoming war that I have no control over.  _ Except I very well might... _

“Worried about what?” Harry asks, turning away from the kitchen and towards me. 

“The war,” I answer shortly, making sure my voice is clear and stable. It doesn’t work very well. 

Harry crosses the room, a look in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher. He holds his arms out as he approaches, and wraps me into a tight embrace. I focus my attention on his hands rubbing into the small of my back, on his face next to mine, and on the smell of him, wafting up from his collarbone. Even so, tears burn at the sides of my eyes, threatening to spill over. 

“So am I…” Comes the whispered confession. 

“You are?” I pull away to look at his face, and find wet tracks down his cheeks. That’s what tips mine over too. 

“Oh, don’t cry Dray,” he tries to comfort. His hand resumes it’s circular motion and he calms me down, but I feel like a jerk. He’s the one who’s going to have to do the unimaginable soon. He’s the one who has the right to be crying. 

“I’m- s-sorry,” I hiccup. 

“Don’t apologise! You haven’t done anything wrong Dray.” Harry pulls out of the embrace and holds me at arms length, his eyes shining and searching. “The war is going to come no matter what we do.”

I nod. “I know,” I manage to say without being interrupted by my own body. “But I-” hiccup, “can't bear the thought of- of losing you…”

Harry smiles shallowly, tears betraying him. “You won’t, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”  _ Merlin  _ I sound miserable, like a girl in a romance novel whose boyfriend is going off to war.  _ Except that’s exactly what’s happening… albeit I’m going too… _

Harry finds the parallel too and chuckles under his breath. I shove him lightly. “I know Dray,” he sighs. “I feel like my world is going to end in three days. Hell, it probably is!” 

“Nonsense!” I immediately argue, instincts leaping into action to prove him wrong. Years of arguing don’t vanish overnight. “You’ve put so much work into everything, and all of the plans are finished. I’ve seen the way people act for you, Harry. You’ll have thousands of people fighting.”

Harry grins at me. “Well, if you’re so confident in me, why are you worried?” 

I roll my eyes, a smile on my face. “Shove off, Potter.”

“Potter, am I? Whatever happened to Harry?”

“You made a point, Potter.” Harry’s grin only widens, enjoying the banter when there’s no venom behind it. 

Harry pulls me back into a hug, but a loud bubbling sound from the kitchen, followed by a sharp crack, has him instantly running back to the stove. He groans loudly, a wild and panicked sound, and starts rapidly moving things around and waving his wand. 

“I thought you were cooking Muggle style?” I mock. 

“I  _ was _ ,” he quips. “But it’s burnt now and I’d rather like to salvage it, so magic it is.” Despite being turned away, I can practically  _ hear  _ the contradicting smile in his words. 

For the next couple of minutes, there’s silence (except for the sounds of cooking, of course). Pleasant smells begin filling the room, and I happily watch Harry’s back as he moves. He’s so good at cooking, yet he refuses to mention why or how. Whenever I ask there’s some sort of panic behind his eyes, and his face inevitably closes off. I stopped asking after only two attempts. It clearly doesn’t hold any enjoyable memories, even though he seems very happy when he’s doing it.

“You know Dray,” Harry says once he’s rescued the pancakes, “you look gorgeous today.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the blush creeping up my neck.  _ I am  _ not  _ in a romance novel!  _ “Indeed I am, Potter,” I reply. “But why is that relevant?”

“What, Potter yet again? And there isn’t anything  _ irrelevant  _ about it,” he says. “Malfoy,” he throws in. 

“Hmph,” I huff. “For what it’s worth, you’re not so bad yourself.”

“That’s it?! That’s the best compliment you could think of?!”

“How’s this?” I ask. “I would let you bend me over right here right now if you wanted to.” 

Harry’s breath catches. “Draco!” He shouts. “You can’t just say that!”

I smirk at him as he turns to face me, and he sticks his tongue out. We haven’t done that yet, but seeing his expression overtaken with want makes me seriously consider it. But no. My mother is in this house, and I do  _ not  _ want her to witness that. 

“I’ve been thinking,” I say into the comfortable silence. “I want to help. To train and actually help.”

“Changing subject are we?” Harry laughs. “Help how?” 

“I don’t know, but I want to try something! If I don’t prepare I will be useless in the battle.”

“Ahh,” Harry hums. “Why don't I firecall Hermione, and she can help you with that?”

A rush of disappointment runs through me. “Why won’t you?” 

“I’ll be there!” Harry practically trips over himself to say. “Of course I will! But I’m afraid I don’t really know much about magic like yours, and Hermione does.”

“How could she possibly know that much?” I ask. 

“Please,” Harry scoffs. “All she’s done these last three days—I guarantee it—is read every book ever created that could maybe have the slightest chance of helping you.”

“Why would she do that?” I furrow my brows. “It’s not like I know her that well. And I was an absolute shit to her just last year!”

Harry turns fully to face me again. “You may have been an arsehole in the past Draco, but she’s since seen how you truly are, and probably considers you a friend!” He exclaims. “Besides, she got you back when she punched you in Third Year.”

I groan at the memory of bone cracking under her fist. “That hurt,” I grumble. 

Harry chuckles and turns back to the food. “I’ll call her, and she and Ron can probably come up with something to help.”

“Thank you Harry.”

***

After a delicious brunch—that only vaguely tasted like it had been dropped in a fire and left to burn—Harry left Mother and I to go call Hermione. 

“He is an excellent cook, dear,” Mother says out of nowhere. “You chose a good boyfriend.”

“Mother!” I say, aghast. “I didn’t  _ choose  _ him out of a lineup or something! It just happened.” The end becomes less defensive and more sensitive, and I internally scold myself for showing any sign of weakness to her. In the past, that very same weakness has been criticised, punished. 

“Well, he’s still a good cook,” she continues. “Although, it is strange he doesn’t have a house elf?” It’s posed as a question, and I feel my blood boil. 

“For a start, Mother,” I begin. “He actually  _ does  _ have a house elf, Kreacher, he’s just moved him elsewhere so he can prepare for the war without worrying about another body.” The light slowly fades from her eyes. “Second, why does having a house elf determine someone’s worth?”

Mother has the sense to look sheepish. “I’m sorry for that, Draco. It’s a habit left over from-” She cuts herself off. 

I nod solemnly, my anger fading. “Yeah. I know.” I’m not going to make her say it out loud. As much as she is flawed, I love her, and she doesn’t need to dredge up her recent past. Less than a year ago, life was normal. We were living in the Manor, listening to Lucius’ rants; and yes, maybe I did have to follow orders on the threat of my family’s painful death, but before that it was fine. 

The silence becomes awkward and strained. As much as we were on good terms two days ago, the reality has since sunken in. There is a war set for three days from now. In three days time, the world as we know it will either stay relatively the same, or it will be flipped upside down into a time of terror. Whichever side wins, people will die. By the end of it, people I know—guaranteed, with my mess of a family—will be dead, and there is no slowing it down. I sigh and rise from my chair in the dining room. 

“I’m going to go shower,” I announce to the air. Mother doesn’t respond, lost in thought as she is, and I cross the room into the hallway. I’m halfway up the first flight of stairs when Harry comes rushing down them. He halts upon seeing me, his face lighting up for a second before it’s schooled into a calm expression. When he managed to make such a good mask, I don’t know. 

“Draco!” He says quickly. “I’m glad I’ve got you. Hermione and Ron are going to be here in the next five-ish minutes and you should probably change into something you can exercise in.” 

“Well that was a rush of words,” I tease. 

“Sorry.” Harry’s hand rubs the back of his neck. “Where were you going?”

“Shower, but I guess I won’t bother now.”

“Probably a good idea. I’d save the shower for after.” He let’s a smirk cross his face. “I could always join you…?”

“Harry James Potter, get your mind out of the dump.” I shake my head. “We have a war to win, and that is much higher on my list of priorities than getting laid!”

“Quiet down Dray, you wouldn’t want your mother to hear those words coming out of your mouth.”

My face darkens, even though she’d probably approve of what I said. I shake my head yet again, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m going to go get dressed.”

Harry grins, pulls me in to peck me on the cheek, and then goes back to running down the stairs. 

***

“How have you used them so far?” Ron is standing in front of me, his red hair a mop over his forehead. He’s dressed head to toe in black workout clothes, just like I am, and is brandishing his wand at me. The sunlight is glaring harshly and I lift a hand to shield my eyes. 

“I’ve uh- I’ve dimmed the lights a couple of times,” I start, shuffling uncomfortably under his scrutiny. The grass crunches underfoot. “I also faded some glare when I went outside yesterday.” It sounds pathetic and weak, there’s no use for  _ that  _ in an already dark room. 

“That’s a good start,” Hermione says, seemingly appearing from nowhere. Trust her to notice the tiniest hint of self-deprecation. “I’ve come up with some drills to focus your magic, and Ron has made a course for you to run once you get more confident with it.”

Ron nods his head. “It’s under a concealment charm right now so you can’t worry about it. It looks quite intimidating, but it shouldn’t actually be too challenging.”

Hermione walks away from Ron and beckons for me to follow her. Her blue and grey clothes are a stark contrast from Ron’s and mine, and her hair is tied neatly behind her head. Well, as neatly as it can be, considering it looks like it’s trying to spring out of the hairband, and with the strength of her curls it’s quite possible. She whirls back to face me and points to the sky. 

“Try to remove the glare, not entirely, just lessen it a little.” 

I tip my head to the side. “I already know I can do that.”

“I know, but I want to see it,” she insists. “Come on.”

Sighing, I screw my hands into fists beside me and close my eyes tightly. Light dances behind my eyelids, yellow and red spots all I can see. But as I concentrate and the glare dims, the spots fade and shrink, becoming blue and purple instead. When I open my eyes again, I’m not confronted with a blinding light like I would normally expect. 

“Wow…” Hermione mutters. I can’t help but notice her usual notepad and pen, covered in new notes. “Try brightening it again!” 

Ignoring the fact that while I’m training I’m also becoming her new test subject, I once again tighten my fists. This time, instead of closing my eyes I focus on widening them as much as possible. I’ve found over the last couple of days that in order to alter the lighting, my eyes need to mirror the action. Light off, eyes closed; light on, eyes open. I stare intently up at the sun—my eyes somehow unaffected—and watch as the glare slowly returns. Eventually I rip my eyes away and unclench my hands. I blink a couple of times to clear my newly-spotting vision and turn to Hermione again. 

Her jaw is now dropped open, her hands fallen—momentarily forgotten—by her sides. I watch as her brain whirls behind her eyes, the cogs turning as she thinks through what I’m doing. Just as quickly as she fell silent, she leaps into action once more. Her hand starts moving so swiftly across the paper that she can’t possibly be thinking about what she’s writing before it’s written. 

“That’s amazing!” She exclaims. She keeps writing, making sure to jot down everything she thinks is necessary. I think it’s a bit overkill, but if she wants to do it, who am I to stop her?

“Could you try fading the sun? Like, not just the glare but the light in general?” 

“I’ve never tried that before…” I say. “I don’t see why not.” 

Unsure of how to do that, I start as I usually would. My hands tighten into fists and I squeeze my eyes closed. I focus in on the lines and dots that are now all I can see, and try to—for lack of a better word—extinguish them. I hear a faint pop and my eyes jolt open. Everything is exactly the same as it was before, with no sign of the cause of the noise. I hum in annoyance. Instead of getting worked up and annoyed at my failure like I would have a year ago, I grit my teeth and force myself to give it another go. My hands move to rest on my hips, my head tipping backwards to look into the sun. I close my eyes again and this time concentrate on removing the light I know is above me. It wavers and flickers behind my eyelids, but it never goes out or dims for more than half a second. I open my eyes and return to my normal stance again, rolling my neck to relieve the strain. 

“Hmmm,” Hermione says. “I’ll have to think about that for a while.” She writes down a couple more notes, her eyes squinting in the glare from the sun. “Move over to Ron, give his thing a try.” She waves her hand dismissively over to her boyfriend’s area of the backyard without pausing in her notes. 

“You’ve finally passed Hermione’s testing, hmm?” Ron calls out when he sees me approaching. 

I grin at him. “It seems so,” I reply with raised eyebrows. “So… What am I doing?”

“You are going to run this course, and then we are all going to play a muggle game called Murder in the Dark.” His face lights up in excitement. Why, I’m not sure. 

“Murder in the Dark?” I ask. I’ve never heard of it, although since it’s muggle that’s not that surprising. 

“Yes, but only after completing the course. Ready?” Ron doesn’t leave time for me to answer, pivoting around and waving his wand in front of him. The air ripples and lifts up, reality distorting as a mass of random objects and transfigured walls come into view. “It’s messy I know, but it should work perfectly.” His face flushes with what must be pride at his creation. 

“What do I do?” I ask. It looks like a maze mixed with an obstacle course. That is, if both were meant to be pitch black. 

“You work your way through to the other side, avoid the obstacles, and alter the lighting the whole way through to reveal different path options and objects to dodge. New routes will appear depending on the light, as will obstacles. Take your time, but if you’re not out within the hour I’m concealing it again and you’ll come flying to wherever I am.”

I swallow hard. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Yep,” Ron says cheerfully. “Harry told me you work well under time constraints and worry.”

“Did he now…?” I murmur to myself, fixing a glare to the window which shows him sitting and watching from a sofa. “I don’t know where he got that idea, but he will definitely pay for it later.” 

“Probably because you managed to send him a letter from the Manor, through all of the wards and right under Voldemort’s nose. Not to mention the series of torturous changes and injuries you’ve survived without time to heal properly, all while helping Harry prepare for a war,” Ron says, sounding gleeful as if it should all be obvious. “So yes, I quite think he’s right. Anyway, get to it!”

Just as I’m about to question him as to how he knows all of that, I’m pushed a few steps ahead and into the entrance of the maze. 


	18. Part 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**29th April, 1998 (continued)**

Light is swallowed the second I enter. I’m plunged into thick darkness, and there’s no apparent way out. I whirl around to glower at Ron, but the maze’s walls have covered the entrance. The only thing there is hedge. I sigh but turn back around all the same. According to Ron, the only way to get through this maze is to alter the lighting. I need to adjust the brightness and darkness constantly if I want to find a way out, all while avoiding the random objects serving as obstacles. I groan.  _ This is going to take ages.  _

Squeezing my hands into fists and opening my eyes wide, I try to increase the light slowly. Instead, it rapidly illuminates and forces my eyes shut. I feel like screaming. I haven’t even walked a metre yet, and I’m already losing my mind. But this needs to be done. I need to help with the war, need to help Harry, and if I lose all of my faculties in a maze to do that? Well, that’s just a side effect. Taking a determined breath, I actually manage to slowly decrease the light. As I do, the first paths become more and more visible. The maze veers off to the left, as well as continuing straight ahead. I’m not sure which option is the better one to take. On a whim, I decide to move forward. The second I take a step though, the maze is plunged back into darkness. 

I pull at my hair. Hard. This is so frustrating. I take a step back, fingers crossed that Ron was feeling nice when designing the maze’s mechanics. With a rush, the light increases again. It seems that I can only light up single steps at a time, and either have to keep changing the brightness, or memorise everything. I will tear Ron apart if I ever get out of here. Taking a breath to calm myself down, I notice that a couple of steps ahead there is a large vase to the left. Other than that, the path straight ahead is clear until a wall cuts it off. Hoping for the best and praying that I’ve remembered accurately, I take a single step forward. I’m careful to keep to the right. I don’t want to knock the vase over, no matter how ugly it is. 

It’s weird, walking forward but not being able to see where to go next. My hand stretches out ahead of me, hoping to stop myself crashing into the wall. Eventually, after shuffling cautiously for a while, a leaf digs into my skin. I push forward slightly further, and my entire hand rests flat against what has to be a hedge wall. Grinning to myself, I drop my hand and clench my fists once again, trying to lighten the maze. Slowly but surely, new obstacles are revealed. One thing that hadn’t happened earlier though, was that as the light continued to brighten, new objects appeared while others faded. Thankfully though, the only path available is to my left. It seems to be half the distance of the first stretch, but it has four obstacles that I’ve seen. I continue to lift the brightness until I can’t see anymore. There are only the four objects—a giant book, a crystal bowl, a grimy kettle, and a child’s chair—but only two are visible at once. 

I fiddle with the light and note where each one is in comparison to the others, but also compared to me. I figure out that the kettle is closest to me and to the left, followed by the bowl on the right with the chair just after it, and then the book on the left at the very end. It’s a lot to remember. Especially since once I take a step forward, it will all vanish. Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes. If I’m going to lose my vision, it might as well be on my own terms. Moving forward slightly, I see the world fade through my eyelids. I veer to the right, avoiding the kettle entirely. The last thing I want to do is stub my toe on the bloody thing. Swerving to the left when I think it’s safe, I move out of reach of the bowl. Being pure crystal, it is probably a relic from the nineteenth century. Apparently muggles have their own versions, but if it’s from the Wizarding World then the only thing holding it together is magic. Sometimes the muggles manage to come up with better ways of doing things—like having a bowl actually  _ stay  _ a bowl without it threatening to cave in—but we make fun of them and continue as we are. 

When I think I’ve passed both the bowl and the chair, I shift to the right once again. A grunt of pain pushes through my lips as I stub my toe on the chair. I feel like cursing the sky away, but my pride gets in the way. I may have just walked right into a tiny, wooden chair, but that doesn’t mean someone outside of the maze has to know that. Regardless, it hurts quite a bit and I frown. How does something hurt so much through shoes? At least I now know where I am. Trying and failing to ignore the pain in my little toe, I feel around the chair and continue on the right side of the path. I reach out my hand again, and soon there is hedge poking against my skin. I shout in triumph. 

Turning to face the way I just came from, I play around with the light. Once I get it correct, I scowl. Even though I walked right into the chair, it is in exactly the same place. Scoffing at the awful piece of furniture and suppressing my desire to burn it to ashes, I turn around and look for the next path. I can only move right this time, but I can see from where I’m standing that the path splits up ahead. I have to choose between right and left. I keep adjusting the brightness, but no obstacles make themselves visible. Even when I decrease the light with the thought that something might glow in the artificial darkness, nothing shows up. Shrugging to myself, I step forward. Considering I had just darkened the room, the inevitable plummet in light isn’t anywhere near as bad as the last couple of times were. 

I walk straight ahead, my hand already up since it’s a rather short path. In eight steps, I feel the hedge under my palm yet again. Now I have to make a decision; based on literally nothing. Cursing under my breath, I decide to go left. I don’t know why, but it seems like a reasonable option. I feel around for the entry and then step into it. Once again, I tweak the light. There is a small coffee table right in the middle of the path, but that’s it. I calmly walk forward and off to the right, hoping to avoid stubbing my toe again. When I get to the end, my hand happens to land on a very sharp stick. Now I really do curse. A little bout of swears I wouldn’t want my mother to hear leave my mouth, and when I adjust the light I realise that I’m bleeding. 

Huffing to myself, I carefully glide my wand over my hand and heal the skin. Clearly I’ve picked a few things up from Harry, as it smooths over and the bleeding stops. Not even a scar remains, and the pain instantly fades. Now that I’ve fixed my hand, I look around. There is only one option again, so I fiddle around with the light and then turn left. There don’t appear to be any objects anywhere, and when I lean forward I can see that the path swings right. Deciding to just go with it, I walk away from the spot I can see in and onto the next path. I continue forward until a leaf gently pricks my hand, and then feel around for the other entrance. Once I’ve found it, I stop moving and play with the light again. Immediately, it becomes quite obvious that I’ve turned the wrong way. A wall of hedge sits at the other end, with no obstacles or entrance.

Remembering that Ron said some paths were visible under different lights than others, even in the same path, I decide to keep trying. I widen my eyes as much as possible, light swarming the maze, but there aren’t any paths. I then squeeze them closed and dim the light as much as I can. When I open my eyes again... nothing is revealed. I groan and turn around to go back the way I’d just come from. To my surprise, the maze immediately brightens so that I can see where I’m going. It must be a feature that when you realise you’ve chosen wrong, it allows you to go back to the actual route. Hopefully that means I don’t run into any more furniture. 

As I wind my way back to the last split, I take a wide berth around the coffee table. Once the maze evens out into a straight line again, I see the option to go right or forward. I came from the right, meaning I must continue to go straight ahead. The very second I step into the split the light vanishes, leaving me dizzy in the darkness. Without a second thought, I start to alter the light. There is a passageway up ahead with only a saucepan in it, and if I squint I can make out a turn to the left. Preparing myself for the inevitable blackness of the next step, I squeeze my eyes shut. Plunged into darkness yet again, I begin to walk forward. 

It’s only as I run into something that feels a lot like metal that I realise I didn’t actually note  _ where  _ the saucepan was. I groan loudly as the big toe of my left foot begins to swell up. Already I can feel it starting to bruise! Sighing to myself at my stupidity, I pull my wand out and fix both of my toes. The little one doesn’t feel too bad anymore, but as the big one is healed it’s like my mind is free again. Happy now that I can think beyond the pain, I keep walking forward down the black path. After a couple of really paranoid steps—even though the only thing to run into was the saucepan, and I’ve already hit it—my outstretched hand brushes leaves. I immediately turn left, remembering that that was the only option. 

I continue on in a whir, my consciousness fading and my feet taking over. Adjusting light becomes easier and easier, requiring less effort the more I do it. The maze really was a clever idea. Even if I’m sick of cutting myself on branches and running into random household items and pieces of furniture. I turn left, left, right, right again, left, and promptly hit a dead end. Burying my head in my hands as the maze lights up, I move back onto the path and plunge into the dark. Any fears I used to hold of the dark are gone, both from spending an uncomfortable amount of time in it, and also because I can now dispel it and replace it with light. 

Once I’m back on the path I turn left, right, right two more times, left twice, right twice, left, left, left. My hand hits a wall and the lights come back to life. Returning to the correct passage quickly, I continue. Left, left again. As I adjust the light to look for the next path, I note that there is only one option again. I take it, turning right. I’m blinded as I step into sun-soaked day time. Cheering erupts around me, three people clapping and whooping as loud as they can. It’s surreal, being in this much light after being enclosed in the dark for so long. 

“You did it Draco!” Hermione shouts from a few paces away. 

I turn to her, giving her a grin that hurts my cheeks. Just as I’m about to reply though, Harry is barrelling into me and wrapping me up in a tight hug. I relax into it immediately, comforted in his strong arms. A tug of embarrassment pulls at my stomach, but I ignore it. There’s no need to be embarrassed about affection, despite what my pureblood childhood might say against it. The people here won’t use this against me. They won’t turn my emotions into a weapon against myself, and Harry certainly couldn’t care less about that. 

A hand claps me on the back, and Ron’s voice booms behind me. “Just under an hour! Good job mate!” He hits me hard twice, nearly knocking the wind out of me. I feel unbelievably pleased at being called ‘mate’. Ron reserves that for his closest friends, and even though I’ve brought myself to use his first name, it’s a totally other thing to be called ‘mate’. 

“I’m just glad you’re out!” Harry exclaims, tightening his hold on me and pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “I don’t know what they were thinking, trapping you in a maze!”

“Harry,” Hermione laughs, “you know it would have disappeared after the hour and he would’ve been safe.”

“Still.” Harry releases me, holding me at arms length and just  _ looking  _ for a second. Something seems to nag at him in his head, as he kisses me full on the mouth. It’s very unexpected, but I return it readily. It’s warm and happy, a safe and comfortable place. There’s a spark of longing and possessiveness from Harry’s side, and my stomach does weird things at that thought. I try to return the sentiment, while still being painfully aware of his friends right next to us.  _ Our friends.  _

“How are you feeling, Draco?” Ron asks when Harry releases me. “Did you hit any of the obstacles?”

After smiling at Harry for a while I turn to scowl at him. “Yes, actually, I did.” I lift my head and sniff the air. “And it really hurt. Especially that saucepan.”

Ron and Harry both chuckle, Hermione the only one to actually look concerned. “Do you need any help healing anything? I’ve gotten quite good at healing charms recently.”

Ignoring the reason behind  _ why _ she’s become good at them, I shake my head. “No, I think I have them all. Although, I did walk into a broom which was suspended from the wall at head height.” I glare at Ron, certain that was his idea. “I might need help easing the bruising.”

Hermione nods and busies herself with her wand and various creams. As she sets about casting complex spells over my head and smearing a cream which leaves tingling all over my skin, Harry starts talking about a room that he’s set aside. 

“Set aside for what?” I ask.

“Oh!” Harry only just seems to realise he hasn’t actually explained any of the context. “Well, Ron mentioned Murder in the Dark earlier yeah?”

I nod in response. 

“Okay, so basically I’ve cleared out a room so that we can walk around without running into furniture.”

I purse my lips. “So you’re telling me,” I start, “that I bumped into furniture for an hour by myself, but that you don’t have to?!”

Harry smirks but breaks into a laugh. “Exactly correct, Dray.” 

When Hermione tells me that I should be set for minimal pain and bruising, we all move back inside. Harry leads us deep into Grimmauld, dragging us up to floors I’ve never been on. Eventually, he stops before a regular door. 

“Here we are,” he announces. “I’ll explain the rules once we’re inside.”

With that vague statement, he opens the door and gestures for us to file in. It’s well-lit and, as promised, void of any furniture. Hermione stops in the centre of the floor and Ron quickly joins her side. I awkwardly stand behind them, not wanting to get in the way. I know it’s stupid, and they aren’t going to do anything to make me feel left out or like a third wheel—which is kind of ridiculous, since if anything this is more like a double date, if you ignore the reason behind the gathering…—but I still don’t want to intrude. Harry smiles at me, a soft and private thing that’s only meant for my eyes. I try hard to stop the grin spreading over my face, but I don’t think I quite succeed.

Harry rubs his hands together and clears his throat. “Murder in the Dark.” He paces a couple of steps back and forth before turning to face us. “Draco, since this training exercise is mainly for you, most of the rules centre around you. This isn’t the traditional game though, so it’s really important that  _ everyone _ listens,” he starts. “Ron, Hermione, and I are all murderers—or in this case, Death Eaters. Draco, you have to avoid us using any means necessary. You have three choices of how to defend yourself, none of which will cause actual damage. The first option is to dim the lights so that no one can see where they are going. This is typical of Murder in the Dark, hence the name of the game. Your second choice is to brighten the room so sharply that our eyes need a second to adjust, giving you time to duck out of the way. The third and final option is something you’ve never done before. You  _ should  _ be able to bend light so much so that you can create a reflection, or even make yourself invisible.

“I must admit… I’m not quite sure how you’d do that, but it should be possible. You could reflect whoever’s closest to you back at them and confuse them for a second, or you could warp light to bend around you, rendering you basically invisible,” Harry explains. “The rest of us—the Death Eaters—need to tap you somewhere above the waist but below the neck. While the real ones won’t have any difficulties hitting you elsewhere, we don’t actually want to cause anyone any harm.” 

Everyone nods around him, prepared to play. 

“Let’s get to it,” Hermione announces.


	19. Part 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, uni decided to hit me with new assignments that I had to give my attention to. I hope you’ve had a good week, and that you enjoy this chapter Xx

**29th April, 1998 (continued)**

The second Harry claps twice, the game commences. Light is immediately extinguished, and everyone runs off in the dark. I look around, squinting and willing my eyes to adjust to the lack of light as quickly as possible. The point of the game may be to test my skills, but I would also like to get used to being in darkness. I turn around, lazily walking in circles and keeping my ears peeled. A scuffle off to the left of me alerts me to another person close by. Determined, I dim the lights even further and creep off away from them. The person turns out to be Ron, his disgruntled slurs very distinct. 

I force myself not to chuckle at how easy it was. It won’t be that easy soon. Grim, I decide to play it safe. Focus on not being caught, instead of on showcasing my new abilities. A footstep sounds to my right and, without thinking, I turn the lighting up. I am instantly blinded, and only then remember my focus. _ Oh well. _It works, everyone in the room yelping, alerting me to where everyone is. Keeping my ears peeled, I continue to tamper with the lighting, dodging people and just being a general nuisance to these people who are trying to help me. I feel kind of bad, blinding them on repeat and then plunging them into darkness in the space of a second. A good friend wouldn’t do that. Then again, the people I face in the actual battle won’t be good friends, will they? 

A shoe scuffs loudly right behind me. I don’t have time to do anything drastic, and my heart thunders in my chest. It sounds once again, slightly closer than before. Hands shaking, I jump to my right and make sure to land quietly. The next second, Harry’s voice cries out as he hits the floor. A sting of guilt shoots through me, but I push it aside. I wouldn’t deliberately hurt him, and _ he’s _ the one who tried to jump at _ me_. Shaking my head and working for my heart to unclench, I prowl around the room. My footsteps are silent in the dark room, and I decide that I need to try one of the new challenges. _ Which one though? _

There could be many benefits of wrapping darkness around myself and becoming invisible. It’s tempting—the sheer capability if I can pull that off is insane—but the room is pitch black. I’m practically invisible already! That leaves bending light to hide myself behind reflections. I can only imagine how taxing that will be on both my physical and magical energy, but I have to try. Harry will annoyed if I don’t; this whole game—hell, the whole day!—has been for my sake. To train me up so I can be useful in the battle. I can’t let this opportunity slide. 

I think for a moment, allowing my mind to sink into memory. The books have been quite useful in the past, but I don’t remember anything about creating light mirrors. Sighing, I think back to the things Hermione and Harry might have said. Neither of them seem to know what to do either, my mind coming up blank. I’m alone in figuring this out. Maybe, instead of clenching and unclenching my fists, I could flatten them out? No, that’s too close to unclenched hands, like I’d do to brighten the room. I hum in annoyance. The next second I am being lunged at again, and I hurriedly dodge left. Ron exclaims loudly as he hits the ground. I scold myself in my mind. This is supposed to be a _ silent _game. Shaking my head, I delve into my mind again. 

What if I pictured a mirror in my mind? Or is that too close to imagining the sun? I groan silently, clenching my jaw tight. Maybe I could… I have no idea. There isn’t anything I can think of which I could use to channel the light properly. Someone utters something about bruising to the right of me. I don’t think they know I’m here. Smirking, I up the light so quickly it’s like the sun has been turned on. Everyone shouts and covers their eyes, and I realise that it was Hermione who was next to me. I darken the room again and creep into one of the far corners. 

There must be something I can do. Harry wouldn’t have suggested it if he wasn’t certain I could find a way to do it. Throwing caution to the wind, I adjust the light so I can see a bit better. As everyone around the room starts to focus in on me, a memory strikes and an idea comes to mind. Smirking to myself and waving cheekily at the others, I turn my back on them and look over my shoulder. What Harry might have called a reflection, is in reality light being bent and stretched in a complete circle. This is easier to create than going invisible. In order to eliminate myself from view, I would have to bend light around myself and remove any naturally reflecting light. To mirror myself or anything else, I only have to hide myself and then amplify the reflected light. 

Since the light is bending around a circle, it might make sense to face one way but look in the opposite direction, over my shoulder. It’s almost like I’m moulding myself into a circle. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. My eyes dart between the three people, each coming steadily closer. They’re suspicious, each and every one of them. They think I’m going to blind them, or literally remove the light from their eyes. Instead, I concentrate on morphing my body. I suppress a shudder; imagining myself contorted and blurred in space is not a pleasant thought. A gasp sounds out from somewhere in the room, and I wonder for a second if it’s worked. When my eyes dart around myself, I see a second me—an exact replica of what I look like right now—behind my body.

I snap my head back so I’m looking at the corner I’m standing in again, and then slowly turn around. My reflection does the same thing, and I’m left staring at the back of my own head. It’s not quite a reflection—as those normally face you—and is more like a duplicate of me a few metres in front. It doesn’t seem to change its position in regards to where I’m facing, always to the north of where I’m standing. As long as no one figures that out, they won’t know which is real and which is literally just a trick of the light. 

“Draco,” Hermione breathes, “you did it.” Her voice is so quiet, like she’s scared it will shatter the illusion. 

Ron has no such concerns, and lets out a wild whoop. “That’s wicked cool mate!”

Harry approaches slowly, his figure visible in the less-dim-than-normal light. “Dray,” he murmurs, walking towards the fake me. “This is amazing.” His face is taken over with pride and wonder, and he stops just short of the illusion. “Which one is real?”

I lift a hand and wave, my reflection doing the same. “Me, of course,” I say. My duplicate speaks at exactly the same time, no trace of an echo to give it away. 

Harry shakes his head. “That doesn’t help.” A grin splits his face, and he backs away. “I guess that’s the point though, isn’t it?”

I nod my head at him, delighted at the prospect of the game continuing. 

Without any warning, I lunge forward into the group and drop the light all the way down. It’s so dark I can’t see anything at all, not even the fake me. The other three gasp and shriek, and run after my duplicate. _ They don’t know they have the wrong one yet. Wouldn’t it be fun to mess with them a bit… _Allowing a sly smile to cross my mouth, I wave my arms around wildly. Distantly, I feel my arm collide with something. The sensation is odd, not entirely present in a way. My duplicate must have hit someone. That’s interesting. That means that my magic has made it somewhat solid, instead of letting things fall right through the bent light. If the fake me is fatally hit, does the illusion disappear? I’ll need to ask Harry, and possibly do some more research. 

Satisfied with my progress for now, I pull the light back and flatten it out again. My reflection wobbles and then curves, morphing around the empty space and flying back to me. Ron curses when he realises they were at the wrong one, and instantly jumps closer to me. I ram the light up and blind him momentarily again, only slightly apologetic for the trauma I’ve put his eyes under today. He drops to the floor and Hermione runs over to him. A second later she stands back up and laughs loudly, before running to where I am. I plunge the room back into darkness and sprint off, not really trying to avoid stepping on people’s toes. 

***

“Time out!” Harry’s voice fills the room an hour later, and I turn the lights up so everyone can see normally. 

“About bloody time,” Ron grumbles, stepping forward from the back corner where I created my duplicate. _ Maybe he was hoping I’d move back over there… _

“That was brilliant, Draco!” Hermione smiles, nudging Ron as she passes and murmuring something that sounds like ‘be nice, your eyes can be healed’. 

I blush slightly, pleased at the compliment from Hermione but embarrassed at the attention. 

“Draco,” Harry says from the front, gathering our attention once again. “That was really good!” He leaves time for the other two to cheer and whoop, and I feel my blush deepening. “However,” his voice cuts through the room, “you have raised a lot of questions that I would like to have an answer for before Saturday.”

I nod, having expected the answer. “Yeah, the reflection is rather curious. It doesn’t seem to follow normal rules of magic or physics, and I have a couple of very particular questions.” 

“Yes, I thought you might. It looks like we have a ton of research we need to get done, doesn’t it?” Harry pulls a face. 

I chuckle at him. “Yes, it seems like we might.”

Harry pauses for a second, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. I only just withhold myself from teasing him about not straining himself. “You didn’t try to go invisible,” he eventually says. 

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t want to try two new things at once,” I explain. “I also remembered something I overheard from some of the younger students back at Hogwarts, about going blind because light can’t hit the retina.”

Hermione looks amazed. “You know Muggle science?”

I glower at her. “I may have been raised by a psychotic father who wants to help a void of a man commit genocide, but yes I know Muggle science.” I pause, wanting to add something to soften my tone. “Also, it helped keep me occupied while I was trapped in my room.” I especially enjoyed the psychology books, but I don’t see the need to mention that. 

She accepts my answer—and my harsh tone—with a simple, somewhat sympathetic, nod. 

Harry draws our attention back to him, and when I glance in his direction he looks like he has a plan. A very detailed plan, I amend, now that I’ve noticed the glint in his green eyes. 

“Let’s divide the research between the four of us,” he starts. “Draco, you should write down everything you’ve noticed about your abilities and any questions you have. Hermione, you and I will look through as many books as possible trying to gather information. Ron, could you sort the books into piles so that we have some idea of what to look for in each?”

Ron pumps a fist in silent applause. “If that means I don’t have to read a bunch of shit I don’t understand, then yes!”

Harry chuckles. “That is exactly what that means, yes.”

“Where are your books?” Hermione asks. I’m sure she knows exactly where they are, and by Harry’s smirk he thinks so too, but he points downwards to the drawing room anyway. 

“They’re all piled down there from the last time we crashed it to do research,” Harry explains. 

With a nod and a surprisingly energetic nod, Hermione bounds out of the room and down the stairs. 

“How does she have so much energy?” Ron groans. I look at him, and for the first time I notice the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead and neck. When I flick my attention to Harry, I see him flushed and sweaty too, his normal mop of hair somehow worse than normal.

“I don’t know,” Harry pants, shaking his head. 

Harry walks over to the door and opens it, holding it out for both Ron and I to cross through before following us out. Harry’s hand finds it’s resting place on my lower back once again, and he presses into me to direct me back down the stairs and into the drawing room. A month ago I would have kicked him and tried to get away; it’s amazing how quickly things can change. 

Ron calls out in what can only be described as frustration as he enters the room. He’s seen the books. Okay. Maybe Harry and I have gone a bit overboard with research, and maybe we have the equivalent of a small library strewn around, but it isn’t quite worth screaming over. Certainly, the piles of books on every surface are a bit daunting, but he isn’t going to be opening any of them past the index! A rush of guilt for Hermione and Harry jolts through me, but I push it down. I’ll help them after I tell them what my thoughts are, and it’s not like any of them actually complained. Hell, Hermione practically _ ran _down to get started. 

Wordlessly, Harry gestures for me to start writing everything I’ve noticed and every question I have down, and I pick up a notebook and Muggle pen off the bookshelf. Settling in on one of the arm chairs, I begin to note down anything that could prove useful. The Muggle science stuff is first, and my knowledge about bending and morphing light takes up most of the first page. Then come my observations. The fact that my duplicate is always to the north of me regardless of where I’m facing; the tiny reaction my own body had when the duplicate came into contact with someone. A couple more fill the rest of the page, and I turn it over to continue on the back. My questions follow my observations, and there are quite a few of those. What happens to the duplicate if I’m seriously injured or die? What happens if the duplicate is hit with an Unforgivable or otherwise fatal curse? Is there only a certain length of time that the reflected version of myself can exist for, despite me being in prime condition? Many more are written down, and the back of the page is now covered in my neat script. 

I tap Harry in the armchair next to mine, and silently pass him the page. He grins at me and scans it quickly, before flipping his book back to the index and navigating to a totally different page than the one he was on when I tapped him. He then floats the paper over to Hermione, making sure it hits her in the face. She glares but looks it over all the same. She taps Ron with her foot, and he looks up from the ground where he’s sorting the books into categories of some sort. He takes the page and reads it quickly, a self-satisfied smile on his face as he continues with his pre-existing piles. When Hermione rolls her eyes, I realise why. _ Hermione thought he’d have to start again after seeing my notes. And Ron was correct all along! _

Smiling to myself, I pick up my own book and open it to the index. It’s a big, heavy book on Fallen Angels, and I scan the list of contents. I find a section devoted to Risen Angels’ powers, and I flick to it. Most of it’s probably useless, but it’s worth a try. 

***

“Would anyone like a cup of tea? Or something stronger?” Harry asks the room a while later. Night has long set in by this point, and a mug of coffee sounds like the only way I’m going to stay awake. I’m utterly exhausted, my body becoming sore and stiff from hours of disuse after hours of activity. 

“Actually, we probably have to be going,” Ron says. “I have some more organising things to do, and I might not have enough time to do them if I leave it much later.” At this he pulls a face, his lip curling and nose scrunching up. 

Hermione smiles a small smile at him before turning back to Harry and I. “I can come back if you need me to, but…”

“But you’d rather be with Ron,” Harry finishes for her. Even though the words ‘since you might only have two days left’ aren’t said out loud, they linger in the air, heavy. 

She purses her lips and nods. She begins to say something but Harry cuts her off. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll be fine. Off you go.” He practically pushes her and Ron towards the fireplace. They exchange hugs and halfhearted reassurances, and then they’re gone in a plume of green smoke. 

The drawing room is astonishingly silent very quickly. The fire crackles in the grate still, but apart from that and our breaths, the house is quiet. Mother checked in on us a while ago, growing tired and heading off to bed. She had teased us about spending all day working and training, but she sounded very proud of me and our progress. Now though, she’s in her bedroom and sleeping soundly. 

“Draco?”

I startle back into the present, Harry’s face right in front of mine. His green eyes are tired and weary, but his mouth is crinkled into a smile. I return it and lean forward to press my lips against his. He sighs contentedly, his arms wrapping up around my neck. 

“Come on,” he murmurs into the tiny space between us. “I’m going to draw you a bath.”

“Okay,” I reply just as quietly. Despite clearly being exhausted, Harry scoops me up and carries me into the closest bathroom to get me ready for a relaxing bath to help soothe my muscles. 


	20. Part 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d just like to say that I can’t believe this has made it to 20 chapters. It’s insane. It also now the same length as Conflicted (which was my first fanfic, woah). So yeah. Enjoy this chapter and you’re upcoming week! Xx

**1st May, 1998**

It’s the first day of May, a Friday. The day before the second of May. The day before the Battle. I shake in my seat, worry overtaking every other thought. The book I was trying to lose myself in sits open, up against my chest—unread. Harry isn’t here; he’s gone to help Ron with preparing the troops. Hermione is out researching something that I don’t have clearance to know about, and I’m all alone in Grimmauld Place except for Mother. It’s terrifying. At the start of the year, I was still being held in the Manor. Still being tortured. Still being manipulated into helping two psychopaths win a war I wanted no part in. I shudder, not even trying to stop it. I’m scared. There’s no denying it. Tomorrow, I will be going into battle. I will be going up against my oppressor and my father. I might even have to be the one to kill them.

Gulping and trying to take deep breaths, I stand up from my armchair. The drawing room is warm and cozy, but it gives me no comfort today. I might be down to my last twenty four hours, and I’m wasting away in an empty house. I want Harry. I need to know that he’s okay. But I can’t. I can’t do anything to disturb him. Not now, not when we’re so close to the final battle. I’ll have to settle for Mother. She’s still in the house somewhere, and she will be able to distract me. Hopefully. It’s quite possible that nothing will help me feel anything other than panic, but it’s worth a try. I’d try anything to feel normal for even an hour.

I all but run from the drawing room, calling out for Mother. There’s no reply. Terror grips my heart like an icy fist. What if something’s happened again? My face pales at the sheer thought, and I rush through spells in my mind. I remember an altered Four-Point Charm, so that instead of pointing north my wand would point to a person or place of my choosing. Whipping my wand out of my sleeve, I whisper the incantation. If someone has broken in, silence is crucial. My wand vibrates in my hand and then twists slightly so the tip is turned down and to my right. The kitchen. Sighing in relief, I make my way down the stairs and into the basement kitchen. 

“Draco dear!” Mother cries when she sees me. “How are you darling?”

I smile through my mess of emotions and pull her into a hug. “Not so good, Mother.”

Her face creases, her arms straightening to hold me out from her body. “How come, Draco? Surely you know everything will work out as it should.”

“No, Mother, I don’t. Because there is a very strong chance that I’ll di-” I pause, the words getting stuck in my throat. “That I’ll die, tomorrow.”

Mother shakes her head. “Don’t say that dear! Harry will work it out and he will win.” 

I sigh. “I can’t be sure, Mother. Anything could go wrong, and Lucius and his  _ Lord  _ could win.”

Mother exhales through her nose before pulling me back to her. “I know,” she murmurs into my hairline. “I know that. I just- I don’t want to think about it until I have to.”

“You mean until it’s too late? You won’t be able to think about it if you’re dead.”

“Draco! Don’t speak like that!”

I worm myself out of her embrace. “I have to. If I think about it now, it won’t seem as bad if it comes true.” 

Mother just stares at me, like I’m something from another dimension.

“What’s going on here?” Harry’s voice fills the room, echoing off the stone walls. Mother takes a step backwards, putting more distance between us. 

“Just talking about trivial things. Nonsense, you know?” I don’t think Harry buys my excuse, but he walks up to me and slings his arms around my waist and buries his head in my hair. 

“You know,” he says after a moment of intense silence. “I’ve been thinking about you, Narcissa.”

“Oh?” She raises an immaculate eyebrow into a neat arch. I wonder if Harry now knows where I learnt how to do it. 

“Yes,” he hums into my head. He pulls away after planting a kiss there, keeping his arms around my waist but loosening his grip a bit. I miss the warm tightness. “I’m going to take you somewhere.”

Mother tilts her head to the side, trying to work out what Harry’s saying. “And where would that place be?”

Harry blanches. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Then why would I go with you?” 

“It’s for your protection.” Harry trails his hands from my stomach around to my back and removes them. I unconsciously shift backwards to be back in his embrace, but he nudges me forward. “All I can say is that it’s a safe house under many enchantments and wards. You would be absolutely safe there.”

“What if someone were to find it? Would I be at risk then?” Mother is still trying to work as much information from Harry as possible. 

Harry sighs, knowing this game all too well. “It is possible, but trust me when I say that it is crawling with wards and that you can’t be tracked to it.”

“It’s under a Fidelius Charm, isn’t it?”

Harry scrubs a hand over his face. “Yes, it is.”

“And you’re Secret Keeper.”

It’s not a question. Harry nods. 

“Very well, then. Just let me pack a bag.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning away and leaving the kitchen. 

“That went well,” I say sarcastically as I turn to face Harry.

He shrugs. “It didn’t go badly. She’s still going to the safe house.”

“Where is the safe house?” I ask.

“I’m afraid I can’t say. The less people who know it’s location, the better.” His eyes look haunted, like he’s lost in memories or thoughts. 

I swallow. “Probably a good idea.”

Harry nods absently before pulling me in to him. He wraps his arms strongly around my shoulders, not wanting to let go. He murmurs something into my hair again, but this time I don’t hear what it is. I don’t reply, just worm myself deeper into his embrace. 

***

“So this is the place?” 

Harry nods, answering Mother’s question—which was asked the second after landing from the Apparition—while simultaneously gesturing to an empty space between the trees. The safe house is in the middle of a forest, hidden deep inside. Apparently, it’s right ahead of us, but I can’t see anything at all in the clearing. The forest is dark and gloomy, but somehow still very beautiful. The air is crisp and clean, unpolluted from magic and Muggle gases as it is. 

“I can’t see it,” I tell Harry as I walk up to his side. 

He grins in return, seemingly delighted by my confusion. “That’s because it’s hidden, remember? It’s under a Fidelius Charm, so unless I explicitly tell you the address or show you, you can’t see it.” His emerald eyes light up in excitement, but beyond the surface there seems to be something else there. Something darker. 

Mother pushes forward in front of us, walking steadily into the clearing. She pauses, before continuing all the way through the middle. When she hits the tree line, she turns around with her hands on her hips and addresses Harry.

“And you’re positive there’s a house here?” 

Harry smirks. It looks very good on him. “One hundred percent sure.” 

He gestures for Mother to come back, and she paces through the clearing again. Harry reaches a hand out for her’s, and she takes it after only a second’s hesitation. Instead of asking for mine, he simply wraps an arm around the front of my shoulders and holds me to his chest. He’s warm and comfortable, solid against my back. 

“If I walk you across the edge of the charm, the house will come into view.” Harry squeezes me before releasing my shoulders. He grabs for my hand, and I clasp his fingers strongly. He takes a step forward, Mother and I following him. 

His grip tightens around my hand, and he pulls me closer. I’m nearly pressed against his back, and my thoughts go blank for a second. We take another step forward, and the feel of complex magic whooshes over me. A house immediately comes into view, almost like turning a corner and having it appear all at once. It’s a little cottage, covered in ivy and built from wood. It could almost be called a cabin, but it isn’t made from logs, just sheets of wood. Mother gasps, eyes running over the cottage. 

“That’s amazing…” She sounds stunned, like she’s never seen magic this strong. It’s probably true. 

Harry rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed at the proclamation. “It’s all yours until the war is over.” 

Mother chews the inside of her cheek. “What if someone somehow finds it and gets through? Should I set up other wards?”

“No need,” Harry reassures. “It’s absolutely coated in them already. Nothing will get through, it’s basically impenetrable.” 

Mother nods. “Okay then.” She makes no move to walk any closer though, choosing to run her eyes over it and its surroundings. The forest is really quite pretty. 

“Come on then.” Harry tugs at my arm and I fall into step next to him. Mother walks ahead of us, pacing up to the front door. 

When Harry and I cross the landing, Mother makes to turn the handle. Harry blanches and rushes to stop her. Sheepish, he places his hand flat against the wood of the door. The outline of his skin starts glowing, and his hand sinks into the wood. There’s an audible click, and the door falls open. My mouth gapes open, and I force it shut. It’s very un-Malfoyish to stand with your mouth hanging open. Without another word, Harry gestures for Mother to enter. He pulls me along after him, and I give in to the random temptation to kiss the back of his neck. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and I grin against his skin. 

“If I leave the cottage, would I be able to get in again without your hand?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, and I don’t suggest you try it.” 

Mother nods and looks around the building. 

The cottage is quite small overall, but Mother shouldn’t need it for too long. That is, not if we win. If we lose… well that isn’t worth thinking about. The first room is a quaint living area. It’s in all neutral colours, with greys and soft browns. Mother looks thoughtful, and I know she’s going to try to change the colours of everything. Harry does too, but aside from the slight tick in his neck, he doesn’t show any sign of annoyance. It is a safe house after all, not a holiday house. 

The rest of the cottage is similar, nothing special but very safe. It is filled with little traps and tricks, and Harry explains all of them and then writes down a list to give to Mother. Time passes quickly, and now I have to say goodbye to her. I might not ever see her again. I could die tomorrow. There’s so much I could tell her about, but I don’t. I just pull her into an embrace and tell her I love her. There’s no use spilling my guts to her when she could be dead tomorrow too. Feeling melancholy all over again, Harry and I leave the cottage. Harry predicts my falling apart accurately, and as soon as the door is closed he scoops me up. He whispers nonsense into my ear, and I push my face into the curve of his neck. My eyes close with the squeeze of Apparition.

***

“It’s kind of ironic, putting your mother into a safe house like this.”

“What do you mean?” I ask Harry as we set up the training grounds. 

Harry sighs. “In the First War with Voldemort, my mother and father were put into a safe house, under the same charm too. They were only discovered since one of their friends betrayed them and sold them out to him. That’s why no one but me is the Secret Keeper, and why the door can only be opened by my hand.”

I pause. “That’s awful Harry.” To think his parents were given away like that… 

Harry nods his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah. In Third Year, when Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban and came looking for me, that’s when I learned the truth. Everyone thought Sirius had sold them out, but really it was Peter Pettigrew.” Harry sighs. “He was hiding as Ron’s rat.”

I feel my eyes widen. “That’s why I never saw it again!”

Harry’s eyebrows raise. “You knew about Ron’s rat?”

I blush, feeling my skin heat. “Well, with all the attention I paid you to torment you and them, I noticed quite a bit.” I feel bad. Like I’ve awoken a memory we haven’t really talked about. Sure, we know there’s history between us. But I bullied him and his friends for six years. I look out across the extended lawn, thinking about how it will look when we’ve finished setting up the equipment, and trying to force that train of thought out of my mind.

Harry’s hand moves to rest on my shoulder, fingers rubbing circles into my skin gently. “I probably paid more attention to you though. Besides, you’ve really changed since then. This time last year you were caught in a trap with no way out, and the year before you were just a git. You may have been nasty and arrogant for a while, but it wasn’t  _ you.  _ It was a shield.”

Tears swim to the surface of my eyes, and I blink to dispel them. “How is it you can read me so well? I didn’t say a word about that.”

“No,” Harry agrees. “But your eyes change colour slightly, and just then they were darker than usual, cloudier. That only happens when you’re deep in negative thoughts.”

Without another word, Harry squeezes my shoulder and gets back to work. Grimmauld Place is going to be used as a training ground tonight. Hundreds of people willing to fight will crowd in, and prepare for the battle tomorrow morning. Once dawn sets in, everyone will be given potions and charms for pain or tiredness, and then we’ll set off for the Ministry. To our likely deaths. Swallowing, I turn and lose myself in assembling equipment. That’s the worst part about this, really. Boxes and boxes of random training gear that all need to be put together. Harry knows how to do this better than I do, but it will still take us hours to set it all up. Groaning to myself, I plant a kiss on Harry’s lips and bend forward to begin unpacking again.

After hours have passed and sweat has soaked through my shirt, the extended grass is finally covered in equipment. Harry looks around grinning, excited to have helped in some way. He turns and finds me watching him, and walks over. Without a word, he wraps me in a hug and pulls me close. He presses his lips to my forehead, and I tilt my head to bring our lips together. Harry all but groans, tightening his hold around my neck. I bring my hands down around his waist, leaning down so our height difference isn’t as great. The kiss turns needy, desperate. He winds his fingers into my hair, and I clutch at his shirt. Our tongues slide against each other, and Harry draws mine into his mouth so he can suck on it. Moaning, I give myself over to his mouth. 

It’s nice, indulging in this when we probably won’t make it out tomorrow. There shouldn’t be any room for regrets, for worries or fears. The world as we know it will end tomorrow, regardless of who wins. Everything will change. Even so, I don’t want to go any further just yet. I don’t pull away though, instead choosing to slowly bring the kiss away from a heavy snog and back to light kisses. Harry loosens his grip slightly, but his hands stay in my hair. Eventually, he gasps into my mouth and pulls away.

“That was amazing,” he grunts.

“Yeah.”

Silence fills the small gap between us as we stare at each other. Harry’s eyes are blown wide with lust, and my heart beats faster knowing it’s for me. 

“Sorry,” I say. “That I don’t want to go any further right now.”

Harry instantly snaps to attention. “That is perfectly fine Draco. Relationships don’t have to be sex driven to still be nice.”

“But are you really okay with that?”

“Of course I am! We aren’t even eighteen yet Dray, there’s still plenty of time.”

I don’t say anything, and his face falls. We’re both thinking the same thing. We might not have any time left at all. 

***


	21. Part 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a lovely and safe week Xx

**1st May, 1998 (continued)**

The house flashes, lights ticking on and off in rapid succession. Harry thought it would be a good idea for me to practise some more while he and the rest of the troops train with standard spells. I had agreed, and while everyone else was too busy firing off hexes to notice me, I had slipped away into the basement kitchen. I’m now standing on the stone floor, alone, and toggling with the lighting. Sometimes I use the electric Muggle lights, sometimes I don’t. It’s more fun when I turn them off and use the tiny amount of natural light somehow making its way into the kitchen. 

I do need to use the electric lights too though, so I drop my current spell and turn to face one of the ceiling lights. It immediately starts flickering, my power having grown so much that I barely have to think about it. It’s become so strong so quickly that a part of me is really concerned about it. Harry says not to worry and that it’s just the adrenaline and fear about the oncoming war. I’m still going to talk to Hermione about it after tomorrow is over though. If tomorrow sees an end. I might not make it long enough to ask. I push all of my frustration and worries into the magic, and it pulses from me in waves. It’s almost like I merely woke a dormant part of me when I Rose, instead of creating a totally new ability separate from the rest of magic. I’ll need to conduct some tests on it if I make it out the other side. 

The lights spark and flash off, but I push it further. Not only are the lights no longer on, but they are actively absorbing any left over, naturally occuring light. It’s something I’ve discovered I can do within the last hour, but I think it could win the war. That—along with my ability to create reflections. Replicas of people and things. Mainly myself. Hermione took our research and has spent all day piecing it together into something that resembles some sort of report. She thinks that the replica is tied to my magical core somehow, so the sensations I feel when the duplicate is hit are just the connection to my magic supply triggering, and not that I’m actually being affected. I can only hope she’s right about that, because she hasn’t found an answer for what would happen if it dies. 

I push harder, and the kitchen is now so dim that I’m struggling to see anything at all. Something sparks, and it illuminates the room so much compared to the darkness that I can see everything for half a second. Then it snaps. There’s bangs and clashes everywhere, and I fall to the ground covering my ears. That can not be a good sign. The bangs get closer, one after another they snap. It sounds like… it sounds like the electricity is slowly turning off all over Grimmauld Place. Have I broken the old house? 

“Draco?! Are you okay?” 

Harry’s voice echoes down the hall and into the kitchen, filling me with relief. He’s okay. 

“I'm good,” I call out in response. “I think I might have broken the house though…”

I can hear Harry’s chuckle along with his footsteps. “You haven’t broken the house! Just the electricity circuit.”

“The what?”

Harry laughs again, and he comes into view with a bobbing lumos. “Electricity runs around the house in a circuit, so everything is connected. If one part of the circuit breaks, the whole thing won’t work.”

My face pales. “So I  _ have  _ broken the house!”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “We just need to connect the circuit again.” He reaches into his pocket and draws out a second wand. I recognise it as Ron’s. 

My eyebrows draw down but I don’t say anything as Harry lifts it above his head. He utters something that I can't hear and then slices the wood through the air. It sings, a lovely note filling the stone room. The house creaks and groans for a second. There’s another set of loud bangs and crashes, and then the lights come on again. My eyes are as wide as saucers. 

“How the hell did you just do that?!” I ask. 

Harry grins at me as he dims his own wand’s light. “Ron has a ton of spells stored in his wand in case he needs them, and when Hermione taught him about Muggle electricity he added a couple for this exact purpose. I just had to say the incantation and it would work.”

“And it did…” 

I pause, lost in thought. Wands are so intriguing. There is so much to them that no one knows about. I never knew they could hold spells like Ron’s does, just waiting for the command to release them. I always thought wands acted on a person’s magic, but this knowledge changes things slightly. Maybe magic is merely a signal, not a source. Maybe that’s why the wand chooses the wizard, and not the other way around…

“Draco?” 

I feel a hand cup my cheek and I look up. Harry’s emerald green eyes are right in front of me, and my heart stops for a second. I only speak when it kicks back into rhythm.

“Lost in thought, sorry.”

Harry smiles softly and pulls me in for a kiss. His hand tangles in my hair and I wrap my arms around him tightly. The world could end tomorrow. It’s the only thought rattling around in my mind as we keep kissing. I could go dizzy with this, lose my mind and everything else. Become solely Harry’s, because nothing else in the world is as important as he is. But I can’t. Not yet, not now. 

I pull away abruptly, feeling a blush rise up and stain my cheeks. I curse my pale skin, angry at the fact that the pink will be on full display. Harry doesn’t say anything though, instead running his thumb over my lips. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he murmurs. He moves his hand back to my hair and presses our foreheads together. We stand there for a while, resting against each other and just looking. 

***

“Who did you say was coming again?”

Ron and Hermione are sprawled out on top of each other, lying on the leather sofa. They look so comfortable and happy in each other’s embrace, and it makes me want to do the same with Harry. But I can’t, because even the thought of being so blatantly smitten makes me feel sick. I don’t like expressing my emotions publicly, no matter how much other people around me do. 

“A lot,” Ron answers. “Most of our year group back at Hogwarts—so Seamus, Dean, Neville, Lavender, the Patil twins, and many more from other houses—the rest of my family, and all of the Order of the Phoenix. They have a large army that’s been training for months for the imminent end, and they are all preparing outside too.”

Hermione nods, her head bumping into Ron’s chest. “There’s quite a few from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as well, but Slytherin I’m not so sure…” 

I nod. “That’s understandable. I mean, most of them would have family on the other side, or are in a similar position to what I was earlier this year. I’m sure some do want what’s right, but they probably can’t cope with being the one to kill their parents or cousins.”

Hermione hums in agreement and Ron slowly nods. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Most people wouldn’t.” It’s true, I think. The majority of people think that everyone in Slytherin is inherently evil, but I believe we were born into a mess that no one else understands. A mess that we can’t fix alone, so we just go ahead with it in order to survive. Almost everything we’ve done has been under duress, and I can only hope that one day, everyone will see that. 

“It’s about time too,” Harry chimes in from the armchair opposite mine. “Not everyone in Slytherin is evil. Hell, not everyone evil is in Slytherin! Yet that’s the way people think.” Harry runs his hands through his already messy hair. “I’m sick of that attitude.”

I don’t say anything, letting his words wash over me and the others. Hermione looks thoughtful, swallowing what he’d just said. Ron’s blue eyes cloud over and he looks to be concentrating on something, trying to work something out. 

“Is this change in mentality brought on by dating Draco?” He eventually directs at Harry. 

He pauses, thinking about his answer. “I think so,” Harry agrees. “I never actually thought they deserved what was being given to them, but I suppose I hadn’t really thought about how deep everything ran.” He smiles at me. “Draco has definitely opened my eyes.”

I swallow and match his smile. 

Ron coughs loudly, startling the rest of the room. He holds his hands up in front of him, mock surrendering. “Sorry ‘bout that. A bit of air got caught in my throat.”

Hermione chuckles and presses her lips to Ron’s in a swift kiss. Then she settles back onto his chest. “Try not to dislodge my head again,” she jokes. Ron rolls his eyes but threads his fingers through her hair and pulls her closer. 

Harry stands and cracks his neck, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back. “I should probably go get ready.”

“What for? You’ve spent all day setting everything up.” I tilt my head to look at him, trying to see the answer as if it’s written on his skin. 

“There’s going to be a meeting assembly thing soon, and I’m giving a speech.”

“Oh. This is the first I’m hearing of it,” I say. 

Hermione flushes. “I only suggested it a couple of hours ago while you were training Draco. I honestly didn’t think Harry would actually agree to it.”

“No, I’m amazed I did myself.” Harry chuckles and reaches out a hand to pull me up. I allow him to, locking our hands together as he pulls. Once I’m on my feet I move to leave the drawing room. I will have to make a good impression on the people arriving. We can’t afford to lose fighters just because I’m involved.

***

Night has fallen and the training grounds have once again been readjusted. As well as all of the equipment we set up, there is now a covered stage on which the speech will be said. Hermione is calling everyone in to gather around the base of the platform, and bodies press in close to hear what will be said. 

“Come on, this way!” Ron is yelling, gesturing to the stage and sheltered standing area. 

People squish in even tighter, and I find myself standing between the old Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor—Lupin, I think his name was—and one of the many Weasley children. I’m not sure which one he is, but he’s built like an ox and is considerably more tanned than the rest of the family. He clearly works outside often. 

The standing area is beautifully decorated, with off-white pavement and deep wooden beams. Soft lights run up the beams and hang over the stage, setting a scene of peace and tranquility. It’s almost jarring against the heavy war preparations. It still looks stunning, and when Harry walks up to the stage everything falls into place. The soft orange glow reflects in his black hair, glinting off his glasses. His eyes bounce the light around, igniting the green and making it appear deeper than normal. It sits on his tan skin, the orange drawing out the natural colours of the dark flesh. Smiling, I allow my eyes to rove over his body. 

“Get to it!” Someone calls, pumping their fist in the air. It triggers a laugh, and people start jokingly chanting to begin. It’s nice to think about the fact that even with great danger looming over them, that people can still have fun. 

Harry smiles out to them and casts a charm on his throat. I recognise it as a Sonorous the second he starts speaking, his voice unnaturally amplified. 

“Thank you for gathering here today, and for preparing to fight tomorrow. We’re in challenging times right now, and I’m so grateful for every one of you. This is going to be the last battle—the final fight against Voldemort and all he stands for. We will fight bravely to the best of our abilities, and with the knowledge that what we are fighting for is equality and peace. I can’t sit still and pretend that the world is fine when everyone in it is being threatened, and clearly neither can you. Voldemort won’t ever stop his ruthless pushing; if he’s allowed to continue, there will be chaos. 

“There will be casualties tomorrow, I’m not going to stand here and say otherwise. Some of you might not make it out the other end, might not see the world finally put to rights. If it is for this reason that you are no longer willing to fight, no one will judge you for standing down. We can not afford to judge others when our world is being threatened by someone who does just that. By someone who uses ignorance, and the human flaw of dividing people away from each other. For those of you gathered here who want to fight regardless of the consequences and possible outcomes, thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. I am far from the only person who has been thrust into this situation, and I acknowledge the fact that many of you are giving up everything to be here. Thank you, and let’s get back to preparing for tomorrow!”

Everyone cheers at Harry as he steps down from the platform, trying to shake his hand or pull him into a hug. He politely shakes them all off, choosing instead to remove his Sonorous and make his way through the crowd towards me. 

“How did I do?” He asks, his face pressing into my neck. 

“Okay,” I murmur back. “Pretty brilliant for someone who hates speeches more than anything else.” 

Harry laughs gently, his head moving against me. “Thanks Dray. For everything.”

“Thank  _ you  _ too. Without you, I’d still be in the Manor. I’d still be under my father’s rule and I’d be preparing to fight against you and everyone else here. Thank you so much for removing me from that situation.”

Harry pulls back and wraps his hands around my neck. “If anything, I drew you deeper into the war.” His eyes flash with guilt, clearly concerned about what my thoughts are about it. 

“You didn’t,” I assure him. “I would be fighting either way. Better to be fighting with someone I love than someone I would prefer to see die.” The words are ripped from my mouth without a second thought, and I fall silent. 

“Someone you love?” Harry asks. “Who could that be?” He teases. 

“Shut up,” I scold. “Don’t make me say it again.” Heat rises to my cheeks once more, and I wait in agony for him to reply. For him to say anything about the words that fell from my mouth. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t want to be fighting this war without the person I love either.” 

Harry beams up at me, and I find myself grinning back. We both admitted it without saying the actual words. “I love you,” I say to him, quietly so only he can hear the confession.

“I love you too,” he murmurs back. 

People cheer around us, and for the first time I realise we have a bit of a crowd. My blush returns even stronger, colouring my pale skin all the way down my neck and over my chest. I’m thankful for the darkness, the only thing protecting people from seeing it. 

“About bloody time!” One of the Weasleys—the one I was standing next to earlier, I think—calls out. The cheer rises again, and people whoop happily. They’re all Harry’s friends, and they’re all just happy to see him so comfortable. It warms my heart to know that he is surrounded by all of these caring people. 

“Shut it Bill!” Harry shouts in return to the Weasley, smile lighting up his face. People laugh again before flooding out of the stage area and going back to training. 

After the mother Weasely, who Harry tells me is called Molly, finishes fussing over him and hugging him to her, we manage to get away from the crowd. Harry explains who everyone is to me, pointing out those I would probably recognise and talking about those I don’t. Names swim in my head, not particularly sticking. It doesn’t really matter. Their faces will commit themselves to my memory, and as long as I don’t hurt them tomorrow everything will be fine. Tomorrow. It’s a funny concept. People take for granted that they’ll make it that far. Take it for granted that they will experience the next day, and the one after that. Now that I know I might not, I find the idea… almost foolish. Of course, so is the fact that I’ve become certain I won’t survive. I might; it’s still a possibility. 

Swallowing down the thought and bringing myself back to the moment, I squeeze Harry’s arm. He’s wrapped it around my waist in a possessive gesture, declaring to everyone who sees us the nature of our relationship. I expect some curled lips and scrunched up noses, but no one seems to mind a gay couple among their midst. I find my heart warming to them again. I decide it’s best to stop thinking and just to live in the moment, and I touch my lips to the top of Harry’s head. He smiles and returns it. 

Grimmauld Place is lit up for the rest of the night as people prepare for war, the soft orange glow of the lights bouncing around the house and training grounds, illuminating the soldiers and the possibility of a better future. 

***


	22. Part 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah I’m so sorry for the wait! I got caught up with another fic for a fest (all done now, no I can’t say anything about it), and just didn’t have the time. Also note that I’m going into an exam period, so I can’t promise I’ll get another chapter next week either. But I’ll never drop this fic (especially not so close to the end!) so don’t worry about that. Have a lovely week Xx

**2nd May, 1998**

A hand on my shoulder shakes me awake, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I’m rolled over and shaken again, but I’m already alert. It’s Harry, crumpled with sleep and an expression he’s hidden away on his face. I smile up at him and pull him down for a kiss. We could die today, and I want to make the most of the time we have left. 

Harry smiles softly as we kiss, gentle caresses with our lips. He pulls away, his smile fading. 

“I’m sorry Dray, but I’m not in the mood.”

I nod. “Fair enough,” I say as I sit up. My head spins and my back cracks. I stretch, my arms lifting above my head. I roll my shoulders, the muscles stretching and burning as I move. It’s too bloody early. All I want to do is flop back over and bury my face into the pillow. 

“_What’s the time_?” I grumble as I stretch.

Harry does a weird half-laugh-half-depressed-breath next to me, and doesn’t even pause to check. “5:31am, the crack of dawn.”

“Great,” I mutter as I stifle a yawn.

Now Harry does actually laugh at me. I want to be offended, but I’m just so happy to see him laughing that I let it slide. 

“Here, take this.” A bottle filled with green liquid is pressed into my hand, the glass cold against my skin.

“What’s in it?” I ask.

Harry doesn’t reply, just raises an eyebrow and gestures for me to drink it. Trusting that he won’t poison me, I take the rubber stopper out and knock the liquid down. It tastes fine, nothing noteworthy. Nothing changes either. Until I feel my exhaustion lifting from me, like it’s being pried off my very bones. 

“Wideye potion,” I say, suddenly wide awake with not a hint of exhaustion left over.

“Yep,” Harry confirms. “I’ve already taken one, but none of the others will have. Come on.”

Oh yeah, the others. Somehow, I managed to forget that there was a whole army worth of wizards and witches asleep in our house. _Our house_? Where did that come from? 

I rush through getting dressed, putting on the clothes laid out for me at the end of our bed. Hermione must have chosen them, as they’re breathable, light, flexible, and most of all, fit me. They’re made of an especially stretchy faux leather, that’s been charmed to act like muggle gym clothes. The shorts extend to my mid thigh, and the shirt covers down to my elbow. I’ll have to spell shields around the rest of my limbs to protect them from enemy fire. 

Harry tugs me out of the room the second I’m clothed, closing the door behind us and not looking back. It’s strange. I assumed that he would want a bit of time to look around. To remember everything that’s happened here, to take time to say goodbye. Chances are we won’t come back here after today. I thought he would have wanted to grieve his godfather’s house, but apparently not. 

Voices clamour as we descend to the ground floor, people shouting to each other about trivial things to distract themselves. As we turn to the back door, I take in the masses of witches and wizards lounging around. Some talk with others nearby, some lay on the ground in pretence of sleep. All of them are tired, muscles aching and staring at Harry and I like we’re important. I guess we are; or we will be. 

“Start passing these around,” Harry murmurs to me. He blinks and a tray of bottles appears next to me, floating. I want to say something about the display of magic, but his look cuts me off. I lick my lips anxiously and peck a kiss to his mouth. People coo at us but I ignore them and pick the tray out of the air.

“I’ll see you before we leave,” I promise him. Harry nods, all business now.

I weave through the crowd, thinking I might as well start at the back and work my way forward. The people sprawl out for ages, and by the time I’ve walked past everyone and spun around, I can barely see Harry anymore. If I squint, I can make out his shape talking with Hermione and Ron, but I shake my head. I have to work now. 

The people around me jump to their feet and run to me, practically begging for this potion that will wake them up. I don’t bother to say that the fact they’re running already demonstrates some level of wakefulness, just hand out glass bottles. They nod and smile at me in thanks, and each grateful person fills a hole in my heart. I am well and truly on the right side now, my past forgiven by each of the people to wordlessly thank me. I can see it in their eyes that it’s more than thanks for the potion. 

I smile as I pass out the bottles, enjoying the rhythm of the motions. It’s easy and repetitive, but doesn’t allow me much time to think as people keep asking me questions—most of which I can’t answer. Occasionally, someone will ask me something about Harry and I. I always blush no matter the question, and try to give them an answer. I don’t take offence, don’t think too much about it. These people want a distraction, and if I can give them one that also happens to be about the Boy Who Lived, who’s going to blame me?

As I walk back to the patio to refill my tray a few minutes later, Ron approaches me. 

He looks at me curiously, raises a hand as I open my mouth to speak. I close it again, sensing that he wants to say something important. That he needs time to think of how to word it. He takes a deep breath, and starts.

“I haven’t mentioned this before because I didn’t think it was necessary, but since we could die today, I wanted to tell you that I’m cool with it. Cool that you’re with Harry, that you’re a Risen Angel, all of it. Just wanted to make sure you knew,” he finishes with an awkward cough and waits for my reaction.

My heart swells with happiness, a smile breaking onto my face. “Thanks Ron,” I say. “It wasn’t necessary, but I’m glad you told me.” It makes such a big difference, even if I’d never thought he _ didn’t _ accept me before this. 

“Good, mate,” Ron replies. His face flushes red and he turns around. I follow his gaze to find him looking at Hermione.

“Go,” I nudge him in her direction.

Ron flicks a glance at me over his shoulder, before practically running to her. I watch as he sweeps her into a kiss, one she easily returns. I smile, happy to know that they’re still going strong, even in the face of war. 

I refill my tray and continue handing out the potions. People knock them back quickly, draining them. It’s entertaining watching as their faces gain colour again, as their eyes shake off sleep. I walk through the crowd, and each step I take fills me with a sense of purpose. 

“Everyone, organise yourselves into your ranks! We will be leaving shortly!” Harry’s amplified voice rings out over the crowd, and everyone stares for a second. Then they start moving all at once. People gather their belongings and cross the ground, arranging themselves into an order I don’t understand. Realising that I have to move at some point as well, I charm the tray to float above my head and make my way over to Harry. 

He’s sweaty already, face red and breathing heavily. When I lift an eyebrow, he nods to the stacks of random objects and crates. Portkeys. I smile at him, a soft, private smile to tell him I’m grateful.

I move closer and bend down so I can murmur to him. “I don’t know where to go,” I confess. “I haven’t been told what rank or whatever I’m in.”

Harry bites back a chuckle. “We’re in the front together, just stay close to me and that’s all you need to know.”

I nod at him and take his hand. He grins, kisses me quickly, and then tugs me out onto the grass. 

Harry leads me all the way to the front line, and if that isn’t fitting for our relationship as a whole, I don’t know what else could be. Harry pulled me from the back of a war I wasn’t remotely interested in, and lead me all the way to his side. To becoming powerful and strong; to war. I swallow the thought and allow him to guide me. 

The few things I have on me should be enough, but I check them all over anyway. There’s little I can’t do with my wand, so the only other things I have are spare wands, bandages in case I lose those wands, and a muggle dagger. I doubt I’ll use any of them, but I was told to take them anyway. I don’t think about where the spare wands came from. With one last look at Harry, I nod. I’m ready. 

Arthur Weasley is walking around, random objects floating along behind him. As he works his way across the ranks, he sends them flying towards people in the crowd. He walks closer still, and I watch as groups form around the objects. Portkeys. A tiny vase slaps into my hand, and people rush to hold onto it. Harry’s hand is right next to mine, tan skin against white. 

“How did they get so many?” I whisper to Harry.

“Ron persuaded Arthur to take them from the Ministry. Ron then charmed them all himself.” Harry looks extremely proud of his friend. 

I nod in understanding. That makes the risk a lot higher—there’s no way the Ministry hasn’t noticed their Portkeys have mysteriously vanished.

“Get down!” Hermione’s voice rings sharply over the crowd, and the assembled soldiers immediately fall to the ground. I linger, not knowing what’s happening. Harry grabs my hand and tugs me down, and I land on top of him in the grass. 

“What’s going on?” I ask as everyone around us starts putting up shields.

“It’s an army cry. Someone is armed.”

“We’re all armed!” 

“No,” Harry says, no humour in his voice now, “someone outside is.”

“Someone’s outside?”

“Clearly.” Harry’s jaw is firm, teeth gritted. He is the picture of bravery; fake bravery.

I swallow. If Harry is scared, it can’t be good.

I look up, keeping my head down and trying not to attract any attention. I can’t afford to be singled out and killed before we’ve even left. My eyes rove over the crowd, looking for Hermione. I find her standing in the doorway to the house, head covered with her arms and a blue shield wrapped around her. She stands straight, trying to appear strong. She’s terrified though. Shields aren’t meant to be blue, they’re meant to be transparent. 

The force of a spell hitting the wards knocks me back to the ground. I land with a thud on top of Harry, who instantly pulls me down again. A streak of red explodes through the air, colliding with the shields over the property. They shouldn’t be able to see the house, so I have no idea how they’re aiming at it. Harry’s wards seem to be holding though. This house has survived a war with Voldemort already, surely it can do so again. 

An orange ball slams into the wards, but the shield doesn’t even shake under the force. An idea forms in my mind, and I smile slowly. With a wink at Harry, the sky darkens overhead. The house and property fall into darkness, the sky becoming black. Voices murmur around us, then rise into shouts. The spells have stopped after less than a minute, but no one knows how. I do though. With the sky dark over a non-existent house, the Death Eaters are terrified. 

“How did they find Grimmauld?” I say at a normal volume to Harry. Nobody is able to hear over the cacophony of voices anyway. 

“I don’t know,” he replies grimly. 

“What if they placed a spell on Narcissa when she was taken to the Ministry, and they tracked her back here?” 

I turn to find Hermione approaching us, standing normally now that the fear of wards collapsing has disappeared. 

“That’s plausible, but the wards should have stopped any tracking spells.” Harry chews the inside of his cheek and tips his head to the side. 

“There’s no other explanation,” I say. “It’s either that, or we haven’t been safe the entire time.”

Harry frowns. “Let’s go with Hermione’s idea then.”

“It won’t matter anyway,” Hermione speaks up. “What’s the chance that we’ll come back here after today?”

“Not high,” Ron’s voice joins in. “Sorry mate, but either the house will turn to rubble, or we’ll be dead.”

Harry looks like he could break down at that thought, spoken so plainly, and I wrap my arm around his waist. 

A loud, high pitched sound reverberates around the crowd, and everyone stops talking to cover their ears. 

“Thank you,” someone says over the noise. It rings out, and shuts off. I turn to look at the voice, and see that it belongs to Kingsley Shacklebolt. “Now that we appear to be protected, it’s time to leave. Your Portkeys will begin to activate within the next two minutes. There are no spares. Make sure everyone is holding on tight, we don’t know what we will see when we get there.”

I swallow hard. We have no idea what we’re teleporting into. It could be a trap, it could be a battlefield. I shake my head and turn back to the group. The vase is cold under my fingers, and I extend it out for the others to take again. Their hands all join mine on the vase, and we stand there waiting. I watch as the people around us move and get into place. So many wizards, so many witches. So many people that might never make it out of the Ministry. 

The vase shakes under my hand, and then I’m being squeezed into nothing.

***

The Ministry is devoid of life, silent, their reflections the only ones on black glass. It’s odd. Normally the Atrium would be bustling on a Saturday morning, all the weekend workers eager to get started for the day. There isn’t anyone here though, and that doesn’t sit right with me. It’s too simple. Way too easy.

A flash of white light shoots across the wide corridor, slamming into black marble walls. Outraged cries rise up from our army, and I realise that we’re all still in our ranks and groups. The Portkeys were charmed exceptionally well, and I’m... proud of Ron. 

“I saw someone move at the other end of the Atrium,” a wizard with long brown hair tied into a ponytail declares. “It’s no problem though, whoever I saw will be dead now.”

Shouts of fury fill the Atrium. 

“Why would you kill when you don’t know who it is?!” 

“What spell did you use?!” 

“Where was the green light?”

“Why would you encourage the battle to start early?”

Everyone tries to talk over each other, all chastising the wizard and questioning his judgement. 

“It’s a spell of my own,” the wizard says. “Not recognisable as the Killing Curse without green light, but essentially the same spell.”

Hermione scoffs from behind me, and I whirl to face her. I had no idea she was so close to me. I feel a slight bit safer with her at my back, knowing how capable she is with a wand.

“We don’t have the time to discuss this,” Lupin says. His voice is amplified to fill the room, the outcome of a very strong Sonorous charm. “We need to keep moving,” he announces before disabling the spell. There’s no room for argument, and the army starts moving towards the elevators. 

The lifts aren’t that large, and there aren’t that many of them. It’s a problem normally, with so many workers trying to move about. It’s even worse with hundreds of people trying to get to the same floor at the same time. It would have made more sense to get a Portkey straight to the Department of Mysteries, but the wards prevent any form of magical transportation. The elevators will have to do. 

The front line files into the first three lifts, the second line following. Lupin is in the same elevator as me, his face set and jaw clenched. His eyes look far away, as if he’s remembering something else. Something dark. I watch as he shakes his head and leans out the elevator to talk to Kingsley. They agree on something, and then the doors are sliding closed. Harry is opposite me, somehow in the same lift despite the chaos. I smile at him, and he returns it. He reaches a hand out to me, and I take it. It’s warm, full of life. It might not be by the time this ends. We stare at each other for a while, before the elevator’s voice announces the 9th Floor. 

We walk out of the lift, standing ready for attack in the corridor. My wand firm in my hand, gripped hard. The incantation for the exploding charm on my tongue, I watch as Ron steps forward. He looks over his shoulder at us, eyes searching someone out in the crowd. He seems to find them, nods, and then turns to face the only door on this floor. Ron leans in close, his wand held up to the lock. Everyone holds their breath as he murmurs a password, moving his wand in a complicated manner. _ Arthur must have given him the password. _ I look around and find the man standing in the crowd towards the back, smiling and looking incredibly proud. _ I’d say I’m right. _

The door clicks open. Ron puts a shield charm up immediately, acting as a buffer between the department and the rest of the army. 

“_Harry Potter_…” A voice hisses from inside. “Why are you there? When you could be here, by my side?” 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Follow me on tumblr @devilrising Xx


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